


A Storm in Amber {ACT II: Equinox}

by martieek



Series: A Storm in Amber [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Altean Lance (Voltron), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Background Relationships, Castles, Chimeras, Curses, Dark Magic, Developing Relationship, Drama, Drama & Romance, Druids, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Family, Fantasy, Galra Empire, Galra Keith (Voltron), Gen, Gladiator Shiro (Voltron), Kings & Queens, M/M, Magic, Multi, Other, Platonic Relationships, Princes & Princesses, Rift, Romance, Sentient Voltron Lions, Soul Bond, Spells & Enchantments, Team as Family, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2019-10-11 23:34:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 36,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17456402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/martieek/pseuds/martieek
Summary: Haggar's chimaera, Velqa, has established her Dark Heart bond with Prince Matthew, but no one is quite sure what this malevolent curse entails.  All Matt knows is he's going to be facing the darkest parts of himself and those closest to him, especially Shiro, who doubts himself as a leader and protector.  Allura, too, now in the wake of her mother's death, must learn to become the leader Altea needs despite her people losing faith in her for protecting Galran-blooded Keith.The Galran Empire looms ominously over the land of Arus, ghosts of Zarkon's past destruction and threats of his armies' destructions yet to come.  Matt, Allura, and the Leonic Angels must work to protect the magic of Amaria before Velqa and the Druids are able to obtain its power under Haggar's command as she convinces Arus Emperor Lotor is to blame, despite the rightful Galran heir having been held her very prisoner.Our heroes must learn to work as a team, and then a family.  Some will fall in love.  Others will relive their pasts while trying to escape it.  Others still catch only a glimpse of what yet may be.  The worst part for them all is the not-knowing, but at least they'll be not-knowing together.





	1. Where the Nettle Met the Rose

**Author's Note:**

> [Read Part I: Solstice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16046489/chapters/37460468)   
>  [_A Storm in Amber_ playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2wJ3c3kmgRzjp6rsn08rUj)   
>  [Check out my cover art for the series!](https://sewerpigeonart.tumblr.com/post/181785078976/a-storm-in-amber-avoltron-fairy-tale-au)

Lance scowls as he and Keith land stealthily inside a thicket within the far moorlands, among the overgrown and crumbled stoney remains of the establishment that was once the proud ancestor of what is now Beezer’s Tavern.

Lance dismounts Irazu with a habitual stroke of her cheek.  Her icy blue eyes thaw for him with concern.   _Keep up with your frowning, and you will find yourself with unsightly lines, my dear,_ she teases heartfully.

Lance’s intended apology morphs into a yelp as Michlo materializes immediately before him.   _It is about time!_ the Green Lion declares.  Kaerda too is unveiled from the magic camouflage, and she rests easily on her side.

Lance would have probably toppled onto his backside, but Keith, unfazed, steadies him from behind without even sparing him a glance.  “We would have gotten here sooner, but Lance spent all morning trying to squeeze out of this.”

“I was not!  I was just… preparing.”  Lance changes the subject at once, asking the Lions, “So, Rajalti can really still hear all of us from back at the castle?”

 _No distance is too great for the bond of Lion and Lionheart,_ Kaerda assures.

Unimpressed by what he sees, Keith takes in the sight of Beezer’s—admittedly, it isn’t looking much better than the remains of its predecessor scattered about them.  “That’s it?”

But, to Lance, it’s a place that feels a lot like a childhood home, though he was well past childhood the last time he was here; a place filled good memories and bad, with people you simultaneously loved and hated and who felt the same about you.  There is a bittersweetness in seeing the old place again, an unexpected nervousness that keeps Lance on edge.  He bites, “What do you mean ‘that’s it?’  This is the best inn in all the kingdoms!”

“We’re hardly still inside the kingdoms,” Keith replies, sounding bored.

“Well, I guess that’s why it’s our secret meeting place.”

“Why are you so extra-touchy today?”

“I’ve been spending too much time with _you,_ I guess.”  Storming clumsily through the thick undergrowth toward the tavern, Lance mutters, “Make sure your Lion doesn’t cause a forest fire.”

 _Mind your tongue, Blue Heart,_ Branoc scolds half-heartedly, already curling up comfortably on a bed of fern and moss.

 _We will be listening from here, safely,_ Irazu offers peacefully, the lilt of a grin just barely evident in her voice as she too shuffles her feathers to rest more comfortably.

Mindful of any potential unwanted onlookers, Lance’s eyes dart about the road upon which Beezer’s stands, the only establishment for a dozen miles.  The owners, Rolo and Nyma, reputable and friendly as they are, have mastered the definition of the word “discretion” for some of their more… unsavory visitors and services.

Lance’s feet stutter to a halt in front of the inn’s entrance, and he finds himself gnawing his lip as he looks into the dimly copper-toned light teetering in the tinted windows against the fall of dusk—they’re riding the tailwinds of summer; days are growing shorter now, and the nights colder.

“This is where Alís found me,” Lance reminisces aloud before he can stop himself, but his voice sounds far away as Keith comes to a stop beside him.  “It’s been forever.”

Lance can’t tear his gaze away from the face of the tavern, nor can he stir his feet back into motion to enter.

In his periphery, Keith shifts his weight.  “You’re the one who suggested we all meet here.”

“I _know_ that,” Lance snaps, looking to Keith finally.  Lance expected a sneering Galran glare on his teammate’s face, but instead Keith appraises him placidly; curious, if anything.  There’s a twinge in their Leonic Bond; Amaria reveals to Lance Keith’s patience, and his marks alight dimly in the flush of shame at bracing for such a negative reaction from Keith—then he blushes harder because he’s angry he’s blushing.

Lance sighs, softening, and before he can think better of it, he’s voicing his memories, staring vacantly into the wood of the building before them as if the past were being replayed upon its surface.  “I come from a big family, and most big families ended up in the slums where rent cost as much as dinner, and dinner was just a few scraps.  When I came of age, I wanted to ease the burden on my parents, to help them take care of my younger siblings, so I took my old lute and set out on my own.  I figured leaving would give them one less mouth to worry about, and if I made it big, I’d send them all my earnings to make sure my family could have the best they ever wanted.

“I made my way around taverns here and there, busking in the streets in between until I found this place.  Since Beezer’s is in the middle of nowhere, Rolo and Nyma really only got vagrants and rogues and more or less of the, um… less-than-favorable patrons that other taverns usually turned away.  But they let me perform, and I became a big hit, really—at least for Beezer’s and my own standards.

“Rolo and Nyma asked me to stay and work for them every night, and I of course agreed and got them lots of customers and lots of my own tips.  What can I say?  They loved me,” Lance reflects with half-hearted, almost wry vanity, “and I was so excited to write my parents letters to send along with the money I made for them.”

Spirits drooping, Lance continues.  “The catcalls and whistles were really flattering at first, usually from regular patrons I’d come to know by name.  But the crowds started getting bigger, more unruly.  Rolo and Nyma needed the extra money criminals would pay for them to look the other way if anyone came asking for their whereabouts.  I needed the money too, so I let them…  I started doing more than just singing for change, and so, eventually, I started getting a little worse for wear.

“But then, I guess Queen Alís heard about the ‘Voice of Beezer,’ people started to call me.”  Lance scoffs, shaking his head incredulously as he thinks back. “She actually came all the way out here—by herself—like, no guard or anything—just to see me perform.  And she loved it, and she came up to me after and, without even telling me who she was, she said her daughter was practicing the strings too, and that my voice would make such wonderful harmonies with her harp.  I remember the way she looked at me; I think she could tell my… lifestyle was taking its toll.  She offered me a healthier one, a place in her home at her daughter’s side so we could make music together—something that made her daughter and everyone who could hear her happy.

“I thought I was gonna pass out when she rode me to the castle in Altea, and I got to sing with Princess Allura.  She sent my family the same sum of coin that Rolo and Nyma did, but all I had to do was stay by Allura’s side.  Coran, who’d been tutoring the princess with her music, joined in, and we made our own little group, performing at festivals or just for fun some days in towns and inns.

“After some time, the guard started training me as one of their own, trading my lute for this special lyre that also turns into my moonbow.  I learned how to use both, since both tools were a way to keep Allura and I together.  Allura made me fall in love with music again, and Alís will always be my hero for that.”  

Lance smiles at the ache of the memory, of refreshed grief for the queen, and refreshed adoration of his best friend Allura.  He is lost to emotion until Keith’s low voice jolts him back to the present.

“Why are you telling me all this?” he asks uncomfortably.

Again Lance flushes, and a defensive fire lights inside of him despite Keith only sounding genuinely inquisitive, confused even.  Probably not a lot of people have ever confided in Keith, Lance considers, taking in the furrow-browed, harmless stare he once hated on principle.  To confide is to trust, and Lance’s face glows even brighter as he realizes bluntly: he trusts Keith.

Lance isn’t sure why this is such a solemn realization, and quite a delayed one at that, but he jerks his shoulder so hard in an attempt to be dismissive that he practically dislocates it.  “I don’t know, I’m just making conversation, let’s go,” he sputters, all at once finding sureness in his footing once more as he stomps into this place he’d left without a single word to Nyma and Rolo.

He’s never once been ashamed of what he had to do, but it wasn’t exactly a time in his life that left a good taste in his mouth.  He’s not eager to be back here, but the past is past, and the present needs him here, so into Beezer’s Tavern Lance goes with a bewildered Keith trailing behind him.

 _I grow more and more proud of you each day, my darling Heart,_ Irazu says simply but with such unbridled fondness that Lance’s vision grows smeared from the gloss over his eyes.

Inside, the tavern is relatively vacant, save for a few occupied barstools, a poker match in the center of the room, and at the farthest, darkest corner sits a party of five: the other Lionhearts, a scarf-shielded Princess Allura, and at her side, to Lance’s bitter chagrin, is the equally-obscured Lotor.

Lance does his best to stifle his reflexive grimace, displeased he had to leave Allura with this fancy-talking heir of questionable integrity.  None of them have known just what to make of the Emperor, who apparently is not even _really_ Emperor as Arus has been beguiled into believing.

Glancing at Keith, Lance determines him less inherently antagonistic of the Galra prince, although Keith’s a hard one to read even with their Leonic bond.  With his permanent furrowed brow and tensed jaw, the Red Heart doesn’t delay in crossing the room with long strides to join the others at the dark booth.

Lance sighs, moving in tow, but as he passes the bar, an old familiar voice brings with it the wash of a thousand memories as it reaches his ear.  He meets Nyma’s dark, startled stare as she pours another mug for a scraggly gent at the stool.

It’s like the world stops for half a second, but without even breaking stride in her work, Nyma offers Lance a smile of recognition, relief, and understanding all in one: _No hard feelings; glad you got out._

Lance beams back at her, blinking away the mist and carrying onward to his companions—just like that, and there is a little less weight on his shoulders.

“Glad you two decided to show up,” Pidge deadpans, mimicking the prior impatience of her Lion.

Disregarding the jibe, Lance slides into the booth next to Allura, unignorably bothered by the fact he can’t squeeze into the space between her and Lotor.  Lotor’s hood is kept low over his face, but the bright shine of Galra eyes greets him with the same inscrutable observation that Keith always wears.

Lance’s own eyes narrow, and he _hmphs_ curtly in as formal a greeting he can muster.  Allura chides him with a sidelong glance.

“As I was _saying,_ ” Pidge apparently continues, “Matt’s been trying to get back in touch with Velqa, trying to find her through this weird shadow bond, but every time he reaches out, he starts having these… fits.”

“What sort of fits?” Allura asks, brow knit with worry.  Seeing the exhaustion lacing her features, Lance winces.  To his own displeasure, she and Lotor have been staying in constant contact since the chimaera’s attack on Shay’s village nearly a week ago, researching and discussing their opinions on the magic and methodology involved.  Allura called a meeting with the Leonic Angels only yesterday to share what the two have decided—in private.

Lance has made his dislike of the private magic meetings clear to Allura, but she’s insisted the knowledge Lotor has been sharing “can’t risk being overheard by _anyone_.”  Well, Lance isn’t exactly encouraged by recalling that Allura and Lotor’s previous private dealings were a key component to their current mess.

Shifting in his seat at the end of the table, Shiro’s newly acquired Holt house crest catches the lamplight on his embroidered collar.  King Samuel and Queen Colleen decided to swear Shiro into their royal guard—again, apparently—and assign him to be Matt’s “official bodyguard” largely for appearance’s sake so Shiro doesn’t have to sneak around and explain his constant presence at the prince’s side, but his pretend service has actually proven of practical need.  

After Velqa attacked Shay’s village in search of enough energy to go from her stinky cloud form to her corporeal chimaera form, she almost succeeded when completing her bond with Matt.  Haggar’s dark magic bound Matt to the chimaera, and had the process been left to run its full course, Velqa would no doubt have drained Matt of his life force and destroy more than just one village.  But, Rajalti, from whom the pride assumes Haggar modeled Velqa, used her ability to travel to the shadow plane with Shiro astride her, and they interrupted the manifestation process.  Shiro and his Lion haven’t said with any specificity what _exactly_ happened with the encounter in the shadow plane; all Lance saw was the evil cloud-chimaera-smoke simply scream and vanish, leaving Shiro and Matt spooked in her wake.

Nothing but her devastation remains, Shay’s village in ruins, and Matt consumed by some strange dark hold that they’ve all yet to understand.  All they know is: it allows him to enter the mysterious shadow plane at whim, a dark an unexplored reality parallel to their own.  Matt, being Matt, is determined to explore and understand this distorted plane and the chimaera inside of it, but Rajalti has emphasized of its danger to no real avail—Shiro has inevitably had to pull Matt back to reality with each of his ill-advised expeditions.  The Black Lion and Heart are the only ones who can travel to this plane, so Shiro being a constant companion to the stubborn prince has, at the least, been best for Matt.

That is how Pidge and Shiro explain it now to the others here inside Beezer’s.

“He’s always been keen to explore the uncharted,” Hunk sighs.  “It’s the scientist in him.”

“It’s the _idiot_ in him,” Pidge corrects flatly.  “He keeps trying and trying, and then he starts to get stuck or lost or tired, and he ends up screaming and—”  She sucks in a breath, blinking hard at the thought. “It’s like watching him have the worst kind of nightmare.”

Keith offers her a sympathetic look.  He’s pulled his own brother back from enough terrors in the night, Lance knows, although to his understanding, this shadow plane is something entirely different.

“‘Shiro’s my _bodyguard,_ this is his _job,_ ’” Pidge mocks in a frighteningly accurate imitation of Matt’s voice.  “It’s like he doesn’t care about what could happen to him.”

Keith frowns.  “I get it though.  I mean, we do need to find Velqa.  We figure her out, and I bet we’d beat the Druids no problem.”

Staring hard into the woodgrain of the table, Shiro’s shoulders are tense.  “Velqa...” he mutters.  “Why did she name it?  You don’t name the things you don’t care about.”

With a wry smirk, Lotor says distantly, “You name the things you have hope for.”  He proceeds to explain his theory: “I believe Velqa is meant to be Haggar’s key to controlling the power of Amaria.  However, since the beast was unable to gain enough energy to manifest in the corporeal plane, I have no doubt she and the Druids will not relent until they _are_ able to absorb that power.

“The chimaera is a weapon built to strike a weak point in Amaria’s barrier of being limited to the Leonic Angels.  Unfortunately,” Lotor directs to Shiro, “your peculiar bond with the prince has proven to _be_ that access point.  I can’t say how the Druids will use it once Velqa can manifest, but I assure you Matt is merely meant to serve as their key to accessing the power of Amaria.”

 _Way to put it delicately_ , Lance thinks as he watches Shiro’s distress wash over him at Lotor’s words.  Shiro doesn’t let himself lose his composure, but he does, however, seem to disappear once more into a realm of contemplation.

Determined, Lance finally speaks up.  “So how do we stop her?”

“Oriande,” Allura says resolutely.  The name has lost its wonder at this point, Lance gripes to himself, but he keeps his eyes fixed on the princess as she and Lotor divulge their plan.  “We can’t risk leaving the kingdoms of Arus unprotected during this time of… questioned monarchy, among other disputes.”

“So the princess and I will travel to the realm alone, only one companion with us each to keep our party small yet safe.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me!” Lance barks.  Reeling in the volume, Lance is still sure to insist his anger remains plain.  “Allura, I’ve been behind you every step of the way since day one, but I just don’t understand why you think it’s best to put your faith in _him_ instead of us.”  He glares pointedly at Lotor who returns the stare with such calmness that Lance shies away first.

“You know I trust you, Lance,” Allura pleads.  The sting of Lance’s bite is clear in her voice, but Lance tries to hold his ground as her eyes are wide and desperate.  “I trust all of you, as my mother did.  But we have to trust Lotor as well—his own reputation and safety are at as much stake as any of ours, and—”

“Then let him take the fall for all this!”

“Lance,” Shiro tries to soothe.

Lance ignores him.  “You haven’t told any of us anything these past few days, and now you’re just going to call us all here to tell us what you’ve decided on your own and expect us to just follow the order?  You think that’s how your parents would want you to rule?”

Lance regrets the jibe the moment it leaves his lips, clearly hitting Allura where it hurts.  He opens his mouth to apologize, but Lotor places a hand on Allura’s shoulder, and Lance flares upon witnessing the touch, and he burns even deeper seeing how Allura relaxes under it.

“It’s alright,” Lotor placates, nodding to Shiro and then directing his stare back to Lance with the faintest smirk.  “Frankly, I would find it more concerning if you _did_ trust me with ease; your caution is reassuring.  However, Lance, you wear your heart on your sleeve, and while that trait has its honor in many places, it’s also the fastest way to unveil your biggest weaknesses.”  

There is a knowing glint in the prince’s eye that unsettles Lance—he can’t tell if it’s from using that knowledge against others or having had that knowledge used against him.  Maybe both.  Regardless, Lance finds himself holding his tongue, chastened even though he’s again torn on deciding if that was Lotor’s intention or if it was a mere side effect of his intense air and diplomatic cadence.  Lance feels small under that stare—Galran cruelty under a patient wisdom of travels and studies and life.  That gaze could incite whatever reaction it wanted, Lance considers unsteadily.

“You’re not even crowned yet,” Lance continues to Allura, temper under control now but still sore.  More than sore; he’s scared.  “Altea won’t be able to make it if it loses you too.”   _And neither will I._

Pidge pipes up now amongst the tension, a bold step forward in Lance’s defense.  “I think Lance makes a good point,” she hesitates, shrugging dismissively at Keith as he gives her a look that says _You’re serious?_  “We’re a team now—all of us.  We’ve all got an equal burden to bear in the matter, so I think we should all have an equal say on what we do from here.”

There is a thoughtful silence as Allura hangs her head, and all of Lance’s former temperament is gone.  She’s exhausted and still grieving, still fretting, overwhelmed no less than the rest of them.  He just wants to be her best friend right now.

“We do this together,” he insists softly in accordance with Pidge, and Allura meets his gaze and offers a grateful smile.

Lotor nods once, bowing apologetically.  “Perhaps my time plotting my escape from the Druids’ prison has gotten me in the habit of private schemes.  It was wrong of me to force the same methods upon Princess Allura.”  His posture straightens, and he carefully takes in the faces of everyone around the table.  “So, what are your ideas?”

“No matter what,” Pidge says first, “I don’t think now is the time to leave for Oriande.  Like Lance said, you haven’t been coronated yet, Allura, and to leave Altea without a crowned monarch would be just _asking_ the Empire to come and try to seize your kingdom.”

Hunk adds, “Besides, Matt would have to come with us, and he has to host the Remembrance Festival, and that’s not for three more weeks.”

“That gives us time to train,” Keith suggests, folding his arms and slumping into his chair.  “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re not exactly in any shape to be going on any kind of dangerous quest anyway.”

“We are a bit of a mess, aren’t we?” says Hunk.

“No way!” argues Lance.  “We’ve fought the Druids _twice_ and _won!_ ”

Shiro smiles fondly at Lance’s good intention, but relents, “Keith is right, if a bit blunt about it.  Yes, we’ve fought two battles as a team already, but we’ve barely scraped by.  We each still have a lot of bonding and training to do as a team.  We have a lot of potential to unlock.”  As if unable to resist, Shiro gives Hunk a pointed yet apologetic look, and the Yellow Heart bashfully drops his head.

Shiro continues, “Along with attending to Matt, I’ve been working with Commander Iverson to develop some training for us as a pride, both for battle and general team building between each of us and our Lions.  Matt will join too, even if only so we can all keep an eye on him.”

Pidge laughs, already envisioning the trouble her brother will likely continue to pose.  Then she sighs, and more somberly confesses to Shiro, “You know, I’m still not sure why you’re the one who bonded with Matt instead of me.”

Lance tries to cheer her up by suggesting, “Maybe because you two are already so close.”

Pidge’s brow furrows deeper.  “Maybe it’s because I lied to him about being a Lionheart.”

“You were keeping your word to the pride,” Allura says.  “To me and my mother.”

Lotor muses, “Few things are more honorable than staying true to your word.”

“But he knows now,” Shiro continues, “and he doesn’t resent you for it.”

In the bench, Pidge shifts her weight, her posture suggesting she’s about to be consoled, but again her expression is back to one of distress.  “But what if he resents us for _becoming_ part of this?”

There’s the briefest of awkward silences, but Hunk steps in fast.  “Well, basically the same thing happened with Keith and Shiro, and there’s no hard feelings there.  Right?” he asks the brothers.

“Right,” they respond in meek unison, a knowing glance passing between them.

“And look at Shay,” Hunk continues.  “Her village was, well, obliterated, but she’s incredibly amazing and understanding enough to be cool about it.”  His face lights up the way it usually does when talking about Shay, but even Hunk’s endless mirth clouds as he recalls the battle in the village.  “Still, I do feel bad about it.  I mean… They ran there to be safe, and then…”

“That wasn’t your fault,” Keith insists.  “It wasn’t any of our faults.”

“The village!” Allura exclaims softly, brightening.  “That’s it!  You can have the Lions rebuild Shay’s village.  We can hold a ceremony of good faith, introduce the Leonic Angels to Arus by showing them what they can do, and that they do it for the good of the kingdoms.”

Lance has to admit it’s a good idea.  The first attempt at announcing the return of the Leonic Angels certainly didn’t go so well, and tensions have been higher than ever because of it—Keith has been staying on Hunk’s family farm now just as a precaution.  Which, Hunk’s family is enormous, and Lance has to admit the idea of Keith amidst all those friendly, sunshiney people makes him giggle.

“A peace offering,” Lotor concurs admiringly, smiling at the princess, and Lance’s distaste of him returns.  “I like your thinking, Princess.”

“Isn’t that like… I dunno, some kind of exploitation?” Keith mutters, probably more uncomfortable with the prospect of another audience than anything.

“I think it’s a perfect idea,” Lance says.  “Besides, with Zuzu and the others building the place from scratch, Shay’s village will be the talk of the kingdoms!”

“I don’t think that’s quite what she’d want,” Hunk chuckles.  “But I do like this concept.  And I can bring food!  Everyone gets along when there’s food.”

“And it would be a good precursor to the Remembrance Festival,” Pidge adds, perking up.  “Smooth things over beforehand, lift everyone’s spirits.”

Lance has really hopped on board, a grin splitting his face from ear to ear.  “We could have food and  _music!_   I feel like we haven’t played in ages!”

Fondly, Allura nods and returns his grin.  “Fantastic.”

After some brainstorming and making some closing agreements, the group leaves Beezer’s, and Lance hazards another warm glance to Nyma as she continues tending bar for the growing crowd of night travelers.  He nods to her: _No hard feelings._

In parting, Lotor bows a little too deeply to Allura after mounting his white horse.  _Of course he has a white horse,_ Lance grumbles inwardly.  The Lionhearts all move toward the thicket where their Lions remain hidden, save for Lance, whose sleeve Allura tugs just enough to keep him at her side.  They stand alone in the shadow of the tavern, and the princess looks wearier than ever.

“I’m sorry,” Lance and Allura say in sync.  Lance can feel Irazu watching, no doubt her incredible hearing catching even their whispers.

“Don’t be,” says Lance instead in the silence after, fingers brushing automatically against her arm as Allura draws her shawl closer around her to fend off the evening chill.

“I know you don’t trust him,” she says, nodding after the direction in which Lotor went, “and to be honest, I’m not entirely sure I do as well—not yet with everything, anyway.  But I do believe he’s the one to really help us—all of us.  And I don’t like to be keeping you in the dark, but…”  Allura gives him a wan smile.  “You can be a bit over-protective.”

Lance sighs, his aggression gone.  “It’s my job.”

A cloud passes over the princess’s expression and she steps closer to pull her friend into an embrace.  “It’s _my_ job to take care of all of you now,” she whispers into Lance’s shoulder.  “The Lions were my mother’s wards, all alongside governing her kingdom alone.  And now that burden falls to me.”  She scoffs bitterly at herself.  “And I fear I’ve already messed it up.”

“No way,” Lance insists, hugging her back tightly as if to instill his own assurance through their contact.  “You haven’t messed up, and you’re not alone.  We’re all just figuring it out as we go.”

Allura laughs gratefully, if weakly.  She takes a shaky breath.  “I miss her, Lance.”

The crack in Lance’s heart widens.  “I know.”

And in the quiet of the evening, holding Allura tight against the literal and metaphorical cold, Lance steadies his breathing against the racking frame of his best friend as, for the first time since her mother’s death, she weeps.

 

* * *

 

Thunder stumbles somewhere in the distance, and Matt hopes Shiro and his sister don’t get wet—an ironic hope as he pulls himself from the milky bath into the risen steam enshrouding him with lingering breaths smelling of rosemary and mint.  All is quiet save for the muffled storm outside the castle walls and Matt’s bare feet across the stone floor as he makes his way back to his bedchamber.

Before the tall mirror, Matt slips the robe from his shoulder just enough to unveil the throbbing, sickly patch of black over his heart.  His gift from the chimaera: a dark heart.

Matt watches the mark.  It moves carefully in thoughtful whirls as if alive.  It never spreads further across his skin, staying right above his heart, but its inky tendrils make him dizzy as they seem to suck all the light trying to touch it, like some black hole only ever broken by tiny glimmers of sickly red sparks deep within this endless pit.  Hypnotized and repulsed, Matt takes a shaky breath as the day in Shay’s village replays in his head for the thousandth time:

Velqa’s voice echoing around him as if coming from all directions, and then a purple lightning flash.  Shiro, upon Rajalti.  Hardly a moment to process before the chimaera wails, ghastly and guttural.  Rajalti roars in retaliation as Shiro’s hand reaches for Matt’s.  He can’t hear amidst the shattering caterwauls, but Shiro looks afraid.  Velqa sees their fear, and she cackles.  She hisses and evades the Black Lion to reach Matt just before Shiro does.  Blinding pain, darkness, _Dark Heart!_  But then he’s awake, back in the rubble of the ground, and the chimaera is gone.  Rajalti stands over Matt and Shiro, her chest-deep growls like thunder.  All that’s left is the breathing ink stain on Matt’s chest, the dust of a decimated village, and Velqa’s fading whisper: _Not strong enough…_

But _what_ wasn’t strong enough? Matt ponders once again.  Him?  Velqa herself?  Haggar, even?  There’ve been no further clues.  If not for this bogging feeling and all the uproars, it’d be like Velqa never arrived at all.

The mark serves as Matt’s bridge to the chimaera—that’s Matt’s theory anyway.  The very evening after Velqa afflicted him, Matt realized there is some constant sense of calling.  Matt is aware that following the subconscious auras and lures of a gruesome shadow-clone-esque monstrosity isn’t the most advisable course of action, but if he could just get a little more time to find her in the shadow plane, maybe he could make some sense of this chaos.

He’s gotten the hang of jumping into the darkness, but it seems like every time Matt is about to find Velqa, or gain some clue into the witch’s magic, Shiro appears and yanks him back to reality.  Shiro always looks afraid.  Maybe because Rajalti tells him to be.  Maybe Matt should be _more_ afraid—every time Shiro pulls him awake, Matt lies clammy and gasping, surely rescued from the inevitable danger of roaming too deeply into the shadows, yet Matt still finds himself resentful of Rajalgi and Shiro for keeping him from the only way for any of them to learn more about the chimaera and the Druids.

And lately, aside from retrieving Matt’s wandering self, Shiro’s hardly allowed himself closer to Matt than necessary.  No one is sure _how_ Velqa can use their bond to get to Amaria, and so no one dares risk giving Haggar and her Druids any sort of footing.  As a result, Shiro’s always just out of reach.

Of course, Matt’s thought sourly to himself, the moment he starts to feel like he’s become part of something, he has to be isolated from the rest.  He’s a liability, a weakness, a means to an end on either side of the wall.

Matt knows it’s nothing personal, but the worry and guilt in Shiro’s eyes has been eating at Matt, though it isn’t helpful to anyone how Matt keeps testing his own limits searching the shadow plane.  He admits, though, the ethereal strolls have proven a bit of a reprieve, something private and all to himself, despite its risks.

But for now, Shiro isn’t here.  So Matt breathes deep to steel himself, avoiding eye contact with his own reflection as he rests his palm atop his chest, and the plane welcomes him with ominous arms.

If Matt thought it was quiet before, this place fills with dead silence.  He can’t even hear his own breathing.  But, he is breathing, so that’s a good start.

Opening his eyes, Matt is looking at himself floating, as if a mirror were fastened to the ceiling above a bath.  But this bath isn’t herbal; it smells of mildew and clings to his skin like mud as Matt sits up and disregards the immediate pounding in his chest.  This place feeds on fear, Matt has learned.  Perhaps fear is what fuels Velqa, or perhaps she is the one driving the magic that sniffs out one’s internal sense of danger and awakens it with whatever shady, manipulative powers she has.  Nothing yet is certain, but by the gods, Matt is determined to find out.

Matt’s own voice suddenly pierces the silent grip of this plane as he calls for the chimaera tentatively, as has become his custom.  And as is her own custom, Velqa does not respond.

The pitch-dark space surrounding Matt buzzes a little from the waves of his voice, fading into a weak but steady vibration, a current along his skin.  A sound like dripping moisture in a cave echoes somewhere far beyond seeing.

Matt breathes slowly and rises to his feet, grimacing as the slick liquid refuses to relinquish him in full.  It coats Matt with dedication, though it is only deep enough to reach his ankles.  He scowls, shaking his hands to rid them of what he can before taking heavy steps forward in an indeterminate direction.  He’s never sure just what it is he’s looking for or just what it is he’ll find.

“Velqa, I want to know you,” Matt says softly in earnest, but in the humming stillness even such gentle words hang hauntingly in the nothingness around him.  He tries to think back to the Lionhearts’ descriptions of their bonds with the Lions, how they connect and feel each other.  He closes his eyes, and clumsily he navigates the clutter of his own mind and consciousness in the hopes of stumbling upon something out of the ordinary, some extension of himself that doesn’t actually belong to him—he searches for Velqa.

It’s never worked before, not quite, but he’s always gotten close to the promise of something…  Matt can’t explain it, but he knows she’s here somewhere.  Watching.  Waiting.  So he waits too, to be damned if he were to give up this new ground, this chance.

And then he feels it.  Like an itch in the very outer reach of his mind, Matt can swear he’s found her.  Without opening his eyes, he can feel the eyes he’ll never forget boring into him from somewhere—though if they are from outside or within, Matt can’t tell.  But she’s here.

“Why do you hide from me?” he challenges.

A rumble in the ether is the only response.  The growl is wordless, yet Matt somehow perceives Velqa’s intended meaning is: _You first._

There’s a wariness to her aura, something Matt never would have expected.  In the fleeting brushes he’s felt of her, especially when she first took him, she’s been ferocious, adamant, malicious.  But now, the chimaera is quiet, guarded.

In the silent standoff, Matt isn’t sure if he is gauging Velqa or vice versa.  He has to take advantage of this chance regardless: “You’re an outsider too.”  For some reason, this is the plea that comes to the forefront of his mind, but once it’s spoken, Matt knows it as truth.  “Neither of us was supposed to be part of this, and now we’re part of each other.”

A guarded hiss that rattles carries an uncertainty into Matt’s core, but he pushes on, loathing to hear the tremble in his voice.  “Velqa, _who_ isn’t strong enough?”

Her words form like autumn leaves tumbling in the night winds, wrapping around him from all sides, caressing him, familiar and chilling.  

_Tell_

_me_

_who_

_is._

Before Matt can answer, the air grows even thicker around him, but he manages to keep his eyes closed tight for fear that too much infinite darkness will overtake his—albeit limited—sense of control.  The air around him grows hotter, hotter until his mouth is dry and bitter with the acrid tang of smoke nestling into his mouth and lungs.  Matt chances a peek through his eyelashes and gasps.

Fire.  Fire everywhere.  It’s the only thing, the only sign of life against the backdrop of night made ever darker by the roiling, hateful coils of soot and ash filling every reach of Matt’s vision.  The roar of the flames isn’t enough to drown the cries of those fleeing its ravenous, dancing tongues.  Villagers, innocent people running from the reaches of death, all of them streaming and screaming in terrified paths around Matt.  They can’t possibly see where they’re going, but all they care about is _out_.

Then Matt sees them: Galran soldiers in their imposing armor chasing the villagers and ravaging the wreckages that haven’t been devoured by fire.  Before he can call after the vile men, someone shoves Matt with only enough strength to encourage his departure from the chaos.  “Go!” says a man Matt has never seen before, but in this vision, he feels he cares for him so very much, and Matt’s heart clenches.

In a dreamlike state he raises a hand to call after the grizzled man whose shadowed features are set in mournful resolve, but he’s already gone in a veil of smoke, and in the vision, Matt is whirled around, running now, pulling someone else along by the arm.  A glance over the shoulder shows him a familiar face warped in devastation: _Keith_.

Matt’s own gut drops, but in a crash of thunder, the blazing vision is gone and Matt stumbles to a halt.  The thunder never ends, only growing deeper and rattling Matt’s teeth in the unsettling influx of darkness.  The sound swells into a cicada-like chorus, and then the cicadas scream even further until they’re the voices of a thousand cheering onlookers.

Matt’s underneath the open iron sky, encompassed by the volcanic stone walls of a massive, filled stadium.  The audience cheers and spits and howls like rabid dogs, loud enough to chasten the incoming storm into minding its distance for the time being.

Unable to even hear himself think, Matt takes in the sight of each and every member of the audience in slow motion and notices the scarlet lightning overhead is nothing natural.  These sorts of visions have never happened to him before in the shadow realm.  What the hell is Velqa trying to show him?

As if in response, the scene becomes animate in real-time, and Matt is yet again pitched into this strange projection of construed memory, losing himself to the very-present panic quickening his heart and constricting his innards.  Thunder shakes the walls and the crowd falls away to darkness.  Something slick and heavy tugs against Matt’s arms, and only now does he look away from the people to the hilt he grasps in his bruised hands.

Blood, hot and rancid, pours over Matt’s cramped fingers and drips from his elbow.  Too slow do Matt’s eyes follow the path the blade should be taking—but the blade has disappeared inside the chest of a gasping Galra soldier, yellow eyes blinking sorrowfully into Matt’s own, his final jaded pleas lost to the bloodthirsty crowd’s jeers.

Matt’s breath comes in shallow gasps, never enough air in his lungs as the sky is pierced by crosshatched lightning, cracking like an egg to have the lashing rain tear at Matt’s face and skin.  Mud and blood and sweat and tears toss and slosh in the ground at Matt’s feet, against his knees and soaking into his clothes as he sinks to the ground alongside the dead fighter still fastened to the sword.  Matt can’t let go, his gaze can’t stray from the victim he wasn’t supposed to kill.

This is wrong, it’s wrong, it’s all wrong.

Wind rises over the audience and over the thunder, and Matt squeezes his eyes shut to make it all go away.  But it doesn’t go away, the press of hate and thirst and shame and stink making each breath shorter than the last.  He pries open his eyes to take in the victim’s face once more, but it’s changed now, and it’s Matt’s own face staring back at him, amber eyes glassed and mud-caked skin eroded by streams of blood and rain.

“No!” Matt screams, finally wrenching himself away from the weapon and the scene and falling backwards, but floor of the colosseum has been tunneled into some endless black vortex into which Matt is pitched.  The weightlessness is anything but magic, anything but the thrill of flight like he felt atop Rajalti.  This is despair.  This is the abyss.

Matt jolts and he finds himself on his knees back in the oily pool as if nothing had ever happened.  The vacuous realm is silent once more, but the darkness awakens from its still slumber into a writhing, smoky fog the color of dead moss and aging scabs.  Through the sickly clouds before him pierces the glow of two scarlet, cross-pupiled eyes.

“Velqa?” Matt gasps, shivering and still unable to catch his breath.  He swallows with aching difficulty, parched as if the smoke and sands of the visions are still in his lungs.  With resolve, he commands, “ _Velqa!_ ”  It’s a desperate sound, but Matt’s not even sure what response he’s trying to invoke.

Scarlet lightning pulses deep within the death-green cloud.

_The hardest_

_hearts_

_break_

_first._

Matt can’t sustain his defiance.  “What do you mean?”

The glint of fangs, and then all light is gone.  The faintest wind tousles the stray wisps of Matt’s hair and carries with it a familiar smell Matt’s never realized makes him feel safe—Shiro.

He whips his head around, expecting to see Shiro behind him to retrieve him from this plane once more, but instead he’s met with Velqa’s massive snarling face inches from his own.  Matt yelps and falls backward into the marshy liquid, and the chimaera’s guttural shriek forms a mutilated but unmistakable word in Matt’s mind:

_Stronger!_

The sound pierces so loud it shatters the unending darkness, and Matt shudders back into the awareness of his mortal body with a gasping cry, only vaguely registering the fast hold of Shiro’s support around his limp, cold frame.  His hair and robe are damp, but Matt’s not sure if it’s from sweat, the visions of rain, or the shadow marsh’s foul embrace.

“Matt!” Shiro’s soothing, helping him find his legs once again.  Matt’s recovery time from his shadow walks has been growing shorter, but the extremity of this trip has left him particularly woozy.  All the same, he manages to make some sense of the horror.

“What happened this time?” Shiro asks, sensing the despair and fear still lingering in Matt’s core.  The violet streaks in his skin dance with Shiro’s worry.

Before Matt’s even caught his breath he jumps into spilling aloud his stream of analyses and understandings while Shiro keeps him steady.

“Velqa…” Matt’s rambling.  “She was born of the shadow plane.  It’s her domain; its very essence is the same as her own essence, so she’s able to understand and manipulate those dark fields like no one else can, not even Rajalti.  And I think between the influence of that plane and the warped magic Haggar used to create her, this sort of… anti-Amaria… Unlike how the Lions gain their strength from empathy in their Hearts, Velqa’s strength comes from the darker parts of the heart…”  He scoffs. “‘The Dark Heart.’  Fears, regrets, hates…  She’s able to detect those when they’re in her realm, and it’s almost like she can harvest them and manipulate them, replay them in horrifying ways.”  Matt can’t tell if the prospects are more exciting or terrifying.  

Shiro at last lets Matt stand on his own, but he stays close, conflicted hands hovering as if unsure of whether to keep hold of Matt or step back.  “What did you see?” he asks.

Absently, Matt brushes the tips of his fingers over his chest where his Dark Heart pounds heavily.  He starts to ground himself within the masses of the space and world around him: the stone of the walls, the rug on the floor, the fabric of Shiro’s jerkin, the collar of which has that same smell; something of hearth and leather and night.  Matt’s exhilaration fades as the memories of death reform in his head… Shiro’s memories.

It was Shiro’s guilt and fear he felt, and Matt regards him with renewed sorrow.  For the first time, he has an idea of just what Shiro’s been running from.  He tries to articulate this, but he’s still fatigued and struggling to form full, coherent sentences.

“The fire—your home…  And in the ring—”  Matt’s fingers tremble at the memories, and he clenches them into a fist.  “You never meant to kill him, but he just wouldn’t stop…”

Shiro is strong and capable.  A leader.  The Black Heart.  So Matt tries not to feel pity as he holds Shiro’s freshly wounded stare, but after having Velqa show him those fears she’s collected from Shiro during his brief travels after Matt into the shadow plane, Matt can’t ignore what Shiro keeps trying to carry on his own.  “Is that what you dream about?” he prompts softly, remembering Shiro’s confession of nightmares.

Shiro falters as if about to unleash all his burdens, but he refrains.  His shoulders droop further, and his face becomes apologetic. He says, “They’re just dreams.  You don’t need to worry about it.”

But Matt can see the ghosts of Shiro’s memories dancing in his eyes, and Matt’s frustration with their distance lately ebbs.  He steps forward and reaches for Shiro’s hands, slipping into but a shell of his reflexive joking demeanor.  “Well, you’re stuck with all my feelings, so it’s only fair I deal with a few of your dreams.”  

Shiro sighs carefully, torn between moving closer to Matt and turning away.  Matt bites his lip, his own guilt bubbling inside.  It’s none of his business, one side of him argues, but try as he might, Matt can’t pretend he didn’t feel it all—through those visions, it was as if he were Shiro himself in that moment, and every moment after, all at once.  Every fear and doubt and remorse, even if short-lived, did in fact live inside Matt’s very soul.  Even recalling it steals his next breath, so he can’t even imagine the weight it’s placed on Shiro’s own soul.  Not to mention whatever other stifled demons he hides.  He may be the Black Heart, but a leader doesn’t have to be stone.

Matt searches the endless, new-moon-sky eyes that search his own, and just as he’s about to prompt further discussion, Shiro begins with a soft, “This was all a mistake.”

Matt doesn’t even know what he’s talking about, but the connotations of Shiro’s demeanor and the word _mistake_ hit like a sucker-punch.  “What do you mean?”

Shiro blinks as if only now realizing he’s spoken aloud, but his resolve sets into his leather-clad shoulders.  Matt won’t be fooled by the firm-posture trick though—it’s clear Shiro’s words are a struggle: “Rajalti had a dream…”  And he proceeds to relay to Matt the message the previous Black Hearts had for their Lion, and the implications that Shiro and Matt’s bond was simply a matter of bad timing.  Like the magic simply short-circuited.  “It was never supposed to happen,” Shiro finishes.  “You were never supposed to be a part of this.”

Matt’s brow furrows so sharply it hurts as he tries to process, and Shiro squirms under his gaze.  Of course, Matt scoffs inwardly.  A mistake.  Never supposed to happen.  This isn’t the first “mistake” Matt’s been the butt of, but for Shiro to appear so rueful is a thorn inside of Matt.

Fully-aware of the irony in doing so, Matt straightens his own posture as a defense against the bitterness threatening to drip off his tongue.  “Right,” is all he can manage to exhale, and it sounds pathetic enough to make Matt even angrier.  Why is he angry with Shiro?  It’s not Shiro’s fault.  It was an accident.  A _mistake_.  But it’s not like Shiro can spare him from remaining obligated to this situation; what’s done is done.  

Matt realizes he’s angry because the only reason Shiro would admit the truth would have to be because he doesn’t want more to do with Matt than he has to.

“Right,” Matt affirms again, folding his arms across his torso against the cold of both literal and metaphoric nature.

There’s no way Matt’s pained resignation isn’t rolling off of him in tidal waves over Shiro, and the twist in Shiro’s expression gives the false hope that he’s going to disprove Matt’s conclusions.  But then he just sighs and says, “You should get some sleep,” before turning to leave the chamber.

 

* * *

 

Shiro’s attention remains fixed upon his boots as they click swiftly down the hall, down the stairs, and away from Matt.  With the echo of each step, the selfish part of Shiro begs to hear Matt following him to tell him he’s wrong, to tell him that, accident or not, it’s not a mistake.  But the ache in his throat only tightens as Shiro passes through the castle unfollowed.   _It’s for the best,_ he reminds himself.   _They can’t use our bond if we don’t use it either._

By the time Shiro is outside the castle walls, his breath comes in anxious rasps, sucking in the damp, post-storm rain and crosses the grounds to reach the palace garden where Rajalti has been staying.  He never even processed he was going toward his Lion, but now Shiro realizes she’s exactly where he always turns these days.  She’s become his rock.  His mother was long gone even before she died, and most of Shiro’s childhood was helping his father care for her rather than the other way around.  Absurd as it may sound, embarrassing as her “my cub”s may always be, Rajalti is the closest Shiro has had to a mother.

Rajalti is lying underneath the great, moss-and-vine-draped oak that stands tall and thick in the very center of the gardens, so immense it dwarfs even Rajalti.  The night air is cool and freshly damp against Shiro’s flushed skin, but before he can take the time to relax, Rajalti’s glinting stare considers him in the faint glow of the lamps surrounding the garden.   _Was that really the best way for you to handle that?_ she accuses gently.

“It’s rude to eavesdrop,” Shiro grumbles, catching his breath and taking a seat on the bench at the end of this particular walkway.

_You expect me to ignore when I feel such despair from you?_

Shiro returns to the original question.  “It’s my fault any of this even happened to him.  What else would you have me do to protect him—to protect _all_ of us?  I don’t—”  Shiro exhales sharply and buries his face in his hands.  “I don’t know how to be a leader.”

 _Well, you do not learn by shunning those meant to stand by your side,_ she snorts, but then Rajalti’s tone softens compassionately as she regards her Heart.   _You are so used to running, my cub, so used to bearing the burden of the world on your own, of placing your own needs underneath those of all who have counted on you.  But you are alone no longer; you do not have to run anymore.  You do not have to shame yourself for wanting something—or someone,_ she adds knowingly.   _You are allowed to let him in.  After all, we need him.  Whatever it is we are to do about Velqa and the Druids, he is now a key part._

At mention of Velqa, Rajalti’s violet eyes darken; she hasn’t taken too kindly to the fact the chimaera was deliberately made to be a sort of shadow golem of the Black Lion herself, Haggar using the power she siphoned from Rajalti while she was captured and twisting it into something avaricious.

The ache in Shiro’s throat returns.  “Lotor said it himself: my connection to Matt is the weak point.  Because of me, Haggar can use him as a… a tool for her own gain.  Because I had a weak moment, I was selfish enough to meet him in the glade that day, I gave the entire pride the weakness of a bold-faced target for the Druids.”  He swallows hard.  “I don’t want anyone else to get hurt because of me.”

The Black Lion heaves a mighty sigh. _I cannot change your perceptions of yourself and the world in one night.  But, my cub, I assure you, you are not so important that all wrongdoings and misfortunes are your responsibility alone, and I assure you further, there is no such thing as weakness when discussing matters of the heart.  There is only absence and bravery, and you, my cub, are in too much pain for your heart to be one of absence._

Shiro jumps to his feet, nervous energy driving him to the ends of his wits, and the blatant waves comfort Rajalti sends him become counter-productively stifling.  “Can we fly somewhere?” he asks.  “I just really need to— _ow!_ ”

The wall of severity hits him only moments before the shoe.  The thin sandal thwacks against Shiro’s ear almost hard enough to mask the aggressive shout of “ _Hey!”_ from behind him.

Flummoxed with shoe in hand, Shiro turns to see Matt huffing and puffing down the same path of the garden by which Shiro came.

“You could have warned me,” Shiro hisses to Rajalti, hand to his smarting ear.

Rajalti lifts her chin.   _certainly could have._

Matt comes to a breathless halt in front of Shiro, snatching his sandal back and slipping his foot into it.  “I wasn’t trying to hit you,” he huffs in the most aggravated apology Shiro’s ever heard.  “I just needed your attention.  Gods, you’re so _fast_.”

Shiro stares, speechless.  He wasn’t prepared for Matt to follow him after coming outside, and the way his fiery stare contrasts Matt’s shivering in the blast of cold night air awakens Shiro’s own inner conflict between running from that stare and pulling Matt close to shield him from the cold.

“You can’t just walk away from me, you know,” Matt sputters, catching the last of his breath.  “I am—I’m the—I’m _Prince Matthew Holt!_ ”

Shiro blinks, forgetting about his ear in the midst of toiling emotions betwixt both he and Matt.  Incredulous, he replies, “You want to pull rank _now?_ ”

“Y’know, there’s a lot of things I wasn’t supposed to be,” Matt asserts, ignoring the jibe.  “I wasn’t _supposed_ to be the heir, but when my uncle fell sick without a wife or any children, my dad was the next in line.  So, like the good person he is, Dad took the crown, and that means so did the rest of us.”

Licking his lips, Matt draws his arms in tight and winches his shoulders, the thin fabric of his robe Matt’s only defense against the rising chill.  Shiro is helpless to watch as Matt continues his adamant monologue through a trembling jaw, the stern tumult in his eyes acting like a paralytic for Shiro.  “So, I became the prince, and then I wasn’t _supposed_ to leave the castle grounds.  And I did that anyway, because I wanted to.  Because all I ever wanted was to be out _there_ —” he gestures with a tense wave to the general world, “—and I know enough that if you want something, you just have to go get it.  If you _really_ want it,” he adds pointedly, “you don’t care about the repercussions.”

Rajalti knows better than to interrupt the exchange, but she can’t help but hum her agreement behind Shiro.

“And now,” Matt continues, “you tell me we weren’t _supposed_ to have anything to do with each other.”  He scoffs, a jerky expulsion as he shivers.  Then Matt inhales tightly, and his voice lowers as he deliberates each word to make himself clear: “I am not a religious person.  I have spent my entire life shirking the gods and the fates and any reaches of magic.  Because I have always taken comfort in what can be explained, and predicted, and defined.

“I like science.  I like math, and I like the stars, because they make _sense_ to me.  And whatever doesn’t make sense right away, I can figure it out.  I can learn and decipher and decode and analyze and chart…  But in the end, they do what they’re _supposed_ to.  And that was comfortable to me; I took comfort in that because I wanted that sense of certainty.  I wanted to know that there was at least some part of this world where what was _supposed_ to happen was _going_ to happen.

“And then, _you—_ ” Matt jabs an re-impassioned finger into Shiro’s chest, his intensity sending an involuntary violet burst up Shiro’s neck.  “You…” he says again, weaker this time, tucking his hands back under his armpits to keep his fingers from chapping.  “You had to come along and change everything.  I started to act like the people I made fun of for trusting blindly in magic and the fates.  I started to accept that no matter what, you can’t control or predict anything, but instead of being afraid of that uncertainty, I started to think, ‘Hey, you know what?  Maybe not knowing everything isn’t so bad.  Maybe what we _think_ is supposed to happen isn’t _actually_ what’s supposed to happen.’  And—and now—?   _Now_ , you want to make me double back— _again_ —by telling me that _this_ —” his frozen hands grab Shiro’s and set them alight so vibrantly it distracts them both for half a beat “—was never _supposed_ _to happen_.”

At this point in his speech, Matt begins running out of steam, as if he didn’t expect to go on this long and wasn’t sure where to go next.  Still, despite his feeling wounded and angry, Matt doesn’t let go of Shiro’s hands.  Shiro doesn’t move to pull back either, but he doesn’t say anything, sensing Matt is finding his track again.

Matt articulates in a shuddering sigh, “Well, maybe not.  But, I’ve decided I don’t care anymore about what’s _supposed_ to happen.  All that matters is what _is_ happening; all we can control is what we do right now.  So…”

In sudden doubt, Matt releases Shiro’s hands, gaze flicking nervously to the side before seeking Shiro’s once more with more subdued resolve.  “So don’t tell me what’s _supposed_ to happen.  Tell me what you _want,_ Takashi Shirogane.”

Blinking, Shiro soaks in the fading fire of Matt’s heartfelt words, the flash of it still tingling deep beneath Shiro’s skin.  The passion may have drained from Matt’s frame and voice, but Shiro can’t look away from the brilliant light of Matt’s eyes—a roiling, warm stare, like a storm in amber.

Shiro’s own resolve sets in spite of the way he’s begun to tremble with the blending of emotions and the cold settling into his own body.  He takes the single step separating him from Matt.  Shiro tilts Matt’s face up toward his to make it clear he’s speaking the doubtless truth of his own heart.  “I want you,” he admits.  Then, unable to resist, he adds with a smirk, “Your  _Highness_.”

Matt’s features soften into a blending of relief and disbelief.  He nods tersely and brings his hands to either side of Shiro’s face.  “Good, because it’s freezing out here,” he says before pulling himself against Shiro to kiss him.

Arms encircling Matt to ward off as much of the chill as possible, Shiro wants to laugh in the glowing exaltation of their embrace.

“I’m sorry I threw my shoe at you,” Matt breathes between kisses.

Shiro apologizes in turn, “I’m sorry I made you want to throw a shoe at me.”

Unable to take the cold and need for sleep any longer, the two of them hurry back inside the castle with fingers laced shyly in an intimacy Shiro knows is going to take some getting used to.  In their wake, Rajalti’s purrs of approval rumble so deep that the koi ponds ripple in the garden.


	2. The Gift of Sky

On the morning of Allura’s coronation, the princess rises early.  With all the stealth she can muster, she creeps out of her palace alone and takes her horse from the stables, and Allura rides to the hollow in the woods where her mother protected the Lions for all those years.

Neither she nor any of the Leonic Angels have returned here since the Druids’ attack that destroyed the protective wards that were tied to Alís’s core, killing the queen.  But today Allura is compelled to take a moment to herself, far from the walls of her castle and the people who would soon be addressing her as “Your Majesty.”

Aside from the patches of disturbed earth and the shattered pieces of stone, the quiet hollow rests as if it’s never been disturbed.  As if it’s been like this for centuries.

Allura closes her eyes, breathing in deep.  Alís’s core essence was in place here for so long that Allura clings to the childish hope that she might be able to reach out and feel some lingering wisp of her mother’s aura.  But if Alís’s essence remains within the hollow, Allura cannot find it, and a renewed sense of loss bubbles low in her throat.

She opens her eyes and speaks aloud, desperate to believe that Alís will hear her promise even if Allura can’t feel her presence: “I will make things right, Mother.  I will go to Oriande, and I will win the Guardian’s favor.  I _will_ see you and Father again.”

_Oriande._

The name echoes in her head in time with her heavy heart.  All those years ago, her bargain with Lotor to free the last Angels of their Leonic bonds was seen as a betrayal by the spirit of King Cosra and the Guardian of the Gate.  As atonement, Allura and Lotor were thusly denied any future access to the realm of Oriande, including the reaches of the ancestral spirits who reside there.  It was a choice whose repercussions Allura knew would echo over time, but now that she cannot even sense the loving presence of her parents, Allura allows herself a rare moment of regret, of bitterness at choosing the lesser of two evils.  She just hopes Lotor is right and that they can both make peace with the realm.

Allura’s chestnut mare tosses her white spotted nose, anxious to burn off the nervous energy she senses from her rider.  

“Hush, Lenora, it’s alright.”  Allura soothes the horse, and herself, patting her neck and urging her into a soft trot around the clearing to help ease both of their tensions.

As she steers Lenora around the clearing beneath the first flecks of dawn, something catches Allura’s eye in the grass.  Dismounting her horse, she laughs a bit upon retrieving the dusted, bent frames of Matt’s old glasses.  They fell off when the Lionhearts left this place for the last time, and not even the elements or wildlife had managed to destroy the spectacles completely.

Perhaps it’s silly, but Allura decides to take them as a sign: abused and then abandoned, still the glasses kept themselves together.  Allura vows she and her kingdom will do the same.  They will survive, and they will grow into something new and better.

Allura decides she will return the glasses to Matt—surely his or Pidge’s inventive minds can make use of what’s left—but before safely tucking them into one of her saddlebags, Allura is stricken by a moment of curiosity.  She lifts the frames to her face and peers through the smudged and splintered glass, her head instantly aching as the world around her bends and swirls and blurs.

“Wow, I really did do him a favor,” she chuckles to herself, brushing Lenora’s nose before mounting once more.

“Princess?”

Allura starts at Coran’s voice, his presence so familiar and safe that Lenora never even gave a sign he and his prized palomino were approaching.  Right behind him trails Romelle and her russet pinto, blonde brows ever pinched in concern regarding her lady.

They emerge into the clearing, expressions falling in the growing light of morning as they take in the stillness.  They too are well aware of this place’s somber significance.  But, it too holds better memories, and they all seem to remember this at once.  Coran straightens himself into the warmest grin as he looks forward to the better memories still yet to come.

“Your crown awaits,” he says, perhaps putting on a cheerier face for Allura’s sake—this is a special day and should not be something she dreads like she does.  But, of course, as is Coran’s way, his demeanor does put her more at ease.  She flashes him a bigger smile than she’s felt on her face in days—not so much out of excitement for the coronation itself, but for what it stands for all of Arus.

Romelle’s tension eases in turn and she beams back at Allura, the patchy mare beneath her tossing her head in shared excitement.  “Ready?” Romelle asks.  Her smile falters, but she catches it before it falls completely and pastes on a less-authentic one.

Allura is too aware that her lady-in-waiting has struggled immensely with putting her faith in Lotor.  Her own family was lost in a Galran raid acting under orders of “Emperor Lotor.”  Romelle’s hatred of the Empire has been as personal as many other Alteans’ and has been stewing for nearly as long.  Something so deep-seeded and sure has now been brought into question, as today Allura will use her coronation to also stand witness to Lotor’s integrity.

Romelle hasn’t been so eager to give Lotor the benefit of the doubt.  But she’s trusted Allura’s judgement in the past, and she has faith in her princess, so Romelle has held her tongue and tried to maintain an open mind, even if her suspicious glares could pierce a steel wall.

Allura is sorry to have hurt Romelle by trusting Lotor, but she is so grateful to have so dear a friend as Romelle who can put aside her notions and prejudices all based on trust in Allura.  Allura will do anything she can to assert she deserves this trust—deserves Romelle.

“Readier than I ever thought,” Allura answers.

She made the decision to accept her crown at the site of Shay’s village after the Lions rebuild it, and the importance of this day will echo through generations.  Yet, to Allura’s surprise, she _is_ in fact ready in spite of all the pressure.  In a sudden burst of energy, Allura spurs Lenora toward Coran and Romelle, breezing past as she challenges them to a race.  Stunned by such light-hearted vigor from their princess, the two blink after her for only a moment until Romelle is first to snap out of it and gallop in pursuit with a giggle, Coran in tow.

Their nimble steeds navigate their way through the gold-tinted trees until they break free into the open plains of the kingdom, the chilling winds rippling the high grass but failing to pierce the spreading hope in Allura’s heart.

They race their way over the borders, meeting up with the small procession from her own kingdom toward the site of the village, pausing only to let them know of their whereabouts.  Allura and Lenora have a close but persistent lead, and from second place at her shoulder, Coran reminisces over the rush of the air in their ears.

“You know, your father and I raced nearly this same track years and years ago, before he even met your mother!  Alfor was like a stallion himself in his youth, ready to run without bounds.  Unfortunately, he made the assumption that I was somehow less motivated, and so I won quite the number of races against the king-to-be!”

Allura grins at Coran’s tone of pride.  “Funny how father told me those races ended a little differently,” she tosses back over her shoulder.  Their brief exchange, however, was enough for Romelle to steam past and take the lead.

“Your Highness!” demands one of the procession’s lead guards from the back, regretfully drawing Allura’s attention away from her task at hand.  The three of them slow their horses to see where the guard is pointing, wary until they recognize a welcome accompaniment.

Above, the coming rain clouds hang low over the landscape, and a deepening shadow swells in the heart of them.  With a sudden gale, the clouds part to reveal the shimmering form of gliding, massive blue wings as the Blue Lion tumbles through the sky overhead Allura’s procession.

 _So it is a race you want, is it?_ challenges Irazu gleefully.

“Told you we’d make it!” Lance cries from atop his Lion.

The two of them blast off overhead.  Allura, Coran, and Romelle take on new speeds in vain but delightful pursuit, Irazu indulging the procession below with her ever-acrobatic swoops and twirls, the coming drizzle doing nothing to slow her as the droplets roll off her wings like those of a waterbird.

It’s been so long since Allura has let herself felt so free as this.  To let her horse stretch her legs alongside some of her lifetime’s dearest companions toward the destination that will mark a new era… It nearly takes Allura’s breath away as the love she feels for her family and her kingdom fills every cell in her body for a glorious rush of optimism.

Such a thrill it is for the princess to make her way across the moors and plains and hills and streets that when they approach the final stretch of the trek to the village at the very edge of the kingdoms of Altea and the Holts, Allura is awash with anxiety upon recalling just how important today is for each and every kingdom—Allura is to be crowned at a site equally claimable by both her kingdom and the Holts’.  This is a show of solidarity between the two kingdoms, and it will all be under the aid and watch of the legendary Leonic Angels, who will hopefully provide further confidence for the kingdoms of Arus.

Alteans, Balmerans, humans, and even Galrans… All faces of Arus are here today, and many appear as hopeful as Allura and her friends, but they also seem wary, suspicious, as if untrusting of those around them and the ceremony itself.  This disheartens Allura a bit.

While Galrans are the least numerous faces in the crowd, they are the most scrutinized—however, not all Galrans are aligned with the Empire, and not all those aligned with the Empire are Galrans, and so Allura too experiences a sense of insecurity at understanding the truth that it is nearly impossible to identify the truest of trustworthy people.  Anyone could be in danger, either by the hands of an enemy, or by the hands of those who’ve mistaken another for an enemy.

All the more reason to put forth her best efforts today.  Faith, she reminds herself.  Faith in herself, faith in the Leonic Angels, faith in the inherent honor she believes must be buried deep even within the most ruthless of people.  Naïve a faith the latter may be, but it is one she must hold on to.

And last but not least, Lotor himself has decided to come forward and declare his innocence in regards to the Empire’s tyranny.  Should all of today’s events go well, it will surely be the mark of a new and historic era, but should the reception be poor, well…

Allura remembers taking the glasses in her saddlebag as a hopeful sign, so hopeful she shall remain.

While the village—or what’s left of it—is small, it is isolated and easily allows the masses of those to attend today’s ceremonies.  Already have hundreds shown up, and they shuffle about the circumference of the village grounds.

There is a pang of sorrow in Allura’s heart at finally taking in the sight of Velqa’s destruction herself.  The sorrow bends more toward fear as she also recalls that this wasn’t even Velqa’s full power.  What else could this chimaera be capable of?  Too she wonders, now thinking of Velqa’s strange bond to Matt, what will happen to the Holt prince by the end of all this?  She dares not think of it just now.

While Allura advised Lance and Irazu to uphold discretion until the entire pride is cued to come out for the reconstruction ceremony, the Blue Lion conveniently forgets that a crowd beneath her bears witness as she flies just high enough to remain mysterious yet low enough to draw impressed and wondered gasps from the people below: “The Blue Lion!” and “The Angels have truly returned!” and “Long live Arus!” they all begin to whisper, and soon cheer, as Irazu carries Lance toward the cliff-face that stands as a rear border for the village, behind which wait the remaining Lions and Lionhearts, as well as Lotor and his generals.

Allura should disapprove of the Blue Lion’s blatant draw of attention, but she is feeling lighter than she has in a long while.  Of course she should allow Irazu her indulgences while she can have them—today may be a day of hope, but that is not to disregard the turmoil that will most definitely ensue for the land to reach just what it is they are all hoping for.  In the end, to see the Leonic Angels is to ready oneself for war.

Spurring Lenora apart from the procession as they settle into their own posts, Allura is pleased to see that the growing audience is under control, the general tension more one of curiosity and excitement for the moment rather than fear and apprehension.  The people of Arus have been no less distraught than Allura, and for their safety and peace of mind Allura hopes their good spirits last the duration of today’s events.

At a comfortable canter, Lenora and Allura round the cliff-face to join the others, and she nearly laughs at realizing this is a sensation not entirely unlike meeting backstage before one of her musical performances.  The Lionhearts have all cleaned up for the occasion, their clothes fresh-pressed and tailored fittingly—vests buttoned, collars flat, scarves tied just right.  Even Rover atop Pidge’s silk-clad shoulder, chirping nervously from his perceived excitement of those around him, dons a little orange ribbon around his neck.

“Allura,” a clean-shaven Shiro smiles warmly.  He walks over to greet her with an informal bow, something more out of habit for him than any sort of etiquette Allura would enforce.  They are equals if anything, and he need not lower himself for her.  So she simply bows back in response.

Picking up easily on Allura’s nerves, Rajalti’s voice soothes warmly, _You will be their pillar, young princess.  No matter how you see yourself, they will see you as the glowing leader you are._  

Blushing, Allura nods to the Black Lion where she and the other Lions rest patiently farther back out of sight.

Pidge smirks, “I’ll be sure to take notes to keep in mind for when Matt and I are crowned.”

“I guess I have many examples to set today then,” replies Allura.

Lotor’s stocky white horse carries him over to her side, and he sits so straight atop his steed that even atop Lenora Allura still has to angle her face ever so slightly upward to meet his sharp gaze.  Despite such a gaze, he’s smiling genuinely and gives her an assuring nod.  “Warm them up for me.”  The smile teeters, and Lotor’s ever-honeyed candor has a rare moment of transparency in which Allura can tell he too fears for the future of the land—and himself.

She allows herself a moment of sorrow for him, and even a flash of guilt—sure her parents have departed this plane, but Lotor’s entire kingdom and his very reputation have been stolen from him while he served as prisoner, Druids manipulating the people of Arus into believing their evil deeds were his.  Lotor has been rejected before he has even been seen.  He is a man who has lost truly everything, aiming to make today his first step toward taking it all back.  A momentus ambition, and much of it relies on Allura’s own reception—but he smiles at her still as if it were hardly a thing to be worried about.

Her trust in the Galran prince has ebbed and flowed like the tide, many of his words and contemplative expressions serving as enough to cause doubt, but as Allura offers an assuring smile in turn, she has to wonder if someone who is so actively intending to seek forgiveness for crimes not his own—crimes done unto him no less than his people—can he really be so bad?

With the unsolicited pool of warmth blooming inside her beneath such amity… She really doesn’t want to think so.

“Should we go over the plans one more time?” Hunk asks, distracting Allura from the searchlight of Lotor’s unwavering gaze.  The Yellow Heart pulls out the scroll on which his mother and father—both architects—consulted with Shay and Rax on the best way for the Lions to rebuild this village so that it was fair to the inhabitants but would also make it something all of Arus could look upon as a monument of faith in their own.

Without waiting for an answer, Hunk unravels the scroll and pays no mind to the dust smudging into his pale-colored trousers as he kneels and examines the drawings.  At his side, Kaerda lowers her nose close to the paper too, solid in her own right, but still wanting to assure her very best is done for those in this village.  With Hunk’s own fondness of Shay and her home, the Yellow Lion too feels a personal investment in this particular endeavor.

Branoc sighs, annoyed at having gone over this a hundred times surely; not to mention, her already translucent patience have worn even thinner as she has been so recently stuffed inside a barn alongside Kaerda at the Garrett family farm.

Keith, however, dressed smartly enough in the plain ceremonial robes and sash that Lance lent him, leans to peer over Hunk’s shoulder and study the ideas alongside him.  The Red Heart has been staying with Hunk’s family at the farm for both his own protection, and to also make sure no one Lionheart is ever on their own, and due to either exposure therapy or a genuine appeal to the softer heart Keith refuses to show freely, he has certainly grown a lot more comfortable with the others once settling in with the Garrets.  Allura is amused but mostly delighted to see him develop like this.

Once they’ve all yet again reaffirmed the day’s events, and their spirits are lifted ever higher, Coran beckons to Allura from the corner of her eye, and she spurs her mare over to his side in the center of the town, where the guards of her procession have formed a perfunctory protective border around them.

On the outskirts, the gathering people have amassed in greater numbers than Allura anticipated, the uneven landscape beneath their feet forming an unusual sightline for her—she’s never made a speech mostly at eye-level with the public.  Some platforms and bleachers have been made hastily though, lifting many eyes even above her own. 

Even the Holts, King Sam and Queen Colleen, have arrived under their neutral flag to show their support for Allura today as well as their daughter, the Green Heart, from their exclusive booth at the far side of the audience with their own attendant guard.  Prince Matthew unfortunately could not attend, as he’s been fully preoccupied with preparations for his own coming celebrations.  Appreciative all the same, Allura bows her head to the royal couple.

The varied, shuffling crowd nestles into itself as Coran raises a summoning hand for their attention.  The excited murmuring fades into a silent buzz of anticipation that tingles through Allura from scalp to toes.

She opens her mouth to speak, and freezes in the most unwelcome rush of self-doubt.  But with one glance to Coran at her side smiling warm and proud as if she were his own, and then a glance backward toward the others where Lance gives her a thumbs-up and Shiro nods encouragingly, and she’s ready for sure this time.

“It warms and empowers me to see so many different faces here today,” she begins solidly.  “I know it came as a surprise to Altea when it was announced I would take my crown far from the palace itself—and to the rest of you, perhaps it surprised even more.  But I made this choice for a number of reasons, all of which trickle down to the unity of Arus.

“The Empire has invaded more than our homes; they have invaded our minds and our hearts, and as days go on we only look at each other with growing suspicions.”  In the corner of Allura’s eye, Romelle bows her head in ever-so-slight embarrassment.

“Trust has been wearing thin even amongst our own.  As today is the day of my crowning, I think only of my mother Alís before me and how she only ever strove to keep not only Altea but all of Arus strong of heart, and she did so because she was also strong of heart.

“But if I am to lead my kingdom truly, than I must do so honestly, and I will begin by saying that, as much as I should like to be, I am not my mother.  I do not have the strength of heart she did.  In fact, I am riddled with as much fear and uncertainty as you all must be.  But I hope this does not discourage you from standing by my side in the coming of this new era.

“Perhaps it is boldly I say that it is our shared fear that will keep us at an understanding.  Fear is only weakness if you let it guide you—we must pervade in spite of this fear.  We must use our fear to keep ourselves rational, and yet it is from fear that faith is born.  And faith is what I ask of all of you today—faith, patience, and an open mind.”

Allura swallows hard against her quickly drying mouth as she carefully seeks Lotor’s gaze behind the cliff-face.  Even at this distance his eyes are sharp, but he seems stoic as ever, and Allura prays to all the ancestors and gods that the people give him a chance.

As she calls him forth, his four generals remaining close to his side as an obvious precaution, and already the crowd ripples with jittery murmurs and even one distant whimper of fear, and Allura nearly panics;  _Don’t lose them, don’t lose them!  \_

Quickly she tries to think of words to soothe the crowd as Lotor’s horse stops beside Lenora.  Meanwhile, Coran has angled his own horse toward her, and the encircling of guards each take a step closer inward, but suddenly, Colleen Holt’s voice booms over the restlessness:

“In the spirit of the coming Remembrance Festival’s truce,” she pleads calmly, standing straight in the makeshift quarters off to the side of the crowd, “my husband and I implore you all remain still and listen to what must be heard.  Respect what you do not yet know.”

She takes her seat, Sam Holt smiling fondly at his wife though his own uncertainty is plain in the crease between his brows.  Her words settle into the crowd and take their intended effect. The murmurs quiet, but still eyes are shifty and postures are tense.

As if to make himself smaller, less-imposing, Prince Lotor dismounts his horse, who paws the ground nervously under the weight of so many pressing stares, and bows his head deeply.  He is dressed in plain leathers and furs, hair drawn out of his face in a casual braid circlet, looking hardly royalty let alone a tyrant.  But Lotor’s confidence seems unswayed now as he speaks out for himself for the very first time since the War of Lions ended.  He believes in what he says, even if no one else does.

“I must first thank Princess Allura for trusting me enough to allow me this chance to speak before you, people of Arus.  And I must thank you all as well for trusting in Her Highness enough to listen to what I have to say.  I have thought long and hard about what words, if any, could be used to help you understand just why it is the princess trusts in me, but I figure none can do better than the truth.  And as is Allura’s recommendation, I can only have hope you will consider believing me.

“It is true that I had been gone from Arus for many years, oceans apart from the tyranny of my father, Emperor Zarkon.  It is true that, upon hearing of his malicious reign, I returned to put a stop to it, and, as rightful heir, I planned to take over the Empire at once and make things right.  And it is true that I did kill the Emperor Zarkon, but that is where the truths you know come to an end.

“Upon the death of Zarkon, I was captured at once by the hooded group I never thought of as more than minions, the Druids, led by the witch Haggar, the true mind behind all of the Empire’s wicked deeds.  While my father may have executed many of these deeds, it was Haggar’s voice whispering the commands in his ear.  When the Emperor was killed, it left an opening for her plots to become even more bolstered; she would use and sully the name of the Galran heir to her own gain; indeed, the name of her very own son.”

Stunned murmurs ripple through the crowd, and even Allura recoils atop Lenora.  In all their time knowing one another, this bombshell was not one Lotor ever thought to share with her.  She’d known he was half-blooded, of course, his Altean veins undeniable and part of the reason his own very Empire wanted little to do with him from birth, but it had never been clearly announced it was indeed Haggar of the Druids who had borne him to Emperor Zarkon.  Learning this, Allura clenches Lenora’s reins in a brief flash of anger as she recalls his tellings of the witch’s orders upon Lotor; a mother is meant to protect her children, not ever harm them.  Renewed loathing of the witch kindles within Allura’s chest.

Lotor allows the audience a moment to absorb this information, and, though they seem to be only more wary of the Galran prince, he continues his speech and repeats much of what he has already divulged to Allura and the Leonic Angels: how he has been imprisoned far underground this entire time, that it has not been his orders carried out that have caused so much harm and misery, that he aims for nothing less than to right what wrongs he can and to prevent any others from being committed against the people of Arus.

Lotor mentions his intentions to quest for the mystical realm of Oriande and seek their guidance and reconciliation on behalf of his parents.  He does not, however, mention both his and Allura’s exile from the realm, nor the reason for that exile being that the two are responsible for the disbandment of the last generation of Angels.  She is, perhaps shamefully, grateful to still keep this a secret from the public.  At least for now, she relents to herself, for it seems like the exact way _not_ to earn the trust of Arus.  All the same, at least they have remained attentive during Lotor’s speech, and that reassures her.

Lotor concludes: “Not all the scars my parents have caused will heal, but I will stand by the Leonic Angels as they fight to stop the Druids from causing further harm.  I know my words have not much weight yet, but this is a vow given to you in the sight of the honorable Lions and Lionhearts, indeed before the eyes of the gods themselves.”

The silence becomes less reassuring once Lotor has finished speaking.  The people begin muttering amongst themselves, and when she meets Lotor’s eyes, Allura is stunned to find he is seeking reassurance from _her_.  All this time, he has been so confident, moreso even than Allura has felt most of the time, but here he is before eyes of all the kingdoms, awaiting their judgement in the face of all evidence clearly against him, at their mercy.  Allura cannot promise his reception will be one of welcome, but she finds herself nodding encouragingly at him anyway, offering even a meager smile in the hopes of saying, _It’s going to be alright._

At last, one challenge rises in earnest over the hum of uncertainty in the crowd.  “How can we believe this?  We have _seen_ you make your way through Arus.  We’ve heard your very voice!”

Carefully, Lotor pleads, “The Druids, Haggar, the powers with which they are able to control and manipulate… Creating a likeness of me to project their falsehoods is but the most remedial of their skills.”

“An awfully convenient truth!” another voice doubts.

“Is this not yet another attempt at manipulation?  Where is the proof!”

“Perhaps Princess Allura herself has fallen victim to these unlikely claims!”

“She is no victim!” Romelle spits back from her princess’s side with indignance before Allura can even react.

This is starting to get out of hand, and Allura rests a soothing hand on Romelles’s shoulder both in an attempt to quell her beloved’s anger and to steady herself.  Renewed vigor and purpose flushes Allura’s body, and her posture straightens with an authority she can’t remember ever feeling as she strives to stand up for herself, for those she cares about around her, and for the hopes she holds so dear.  She insists to not need rescued this time.

“Your doubts are not without their weight,” she sympathizes fiercely so as to reclaim the audience once more.  “But as I said, this is a day of hope and faith.  This point onward, you must believe that we are going to make things right.  As both your intended Queen and as your fellow who shares many of the very same fears as you, I will not shy away from pleading—if not as your ruler, then as a daughter who has lost her parents—stand beside me, and we will only build a better Arus for us all.  And we will not be alone, for behold the return of the harbingers of hope and peace themselves, the warriors of purity: the Leonic Angels!”

At Allura’s cue, Irazu commands attention with a prideful roar atop the low cliff adjacent to the village.  The other Lions join in and together their cries form a bold clarion call for the future.  Mounted atop their Lions, the Lionhearts seem puny, but they compensate with shoulders set back and chins tilted in firm confidence.  They are quite the sight to behold.

The crowd’s doubtful fears and challenges shift into a wondered sea of gasps and cries of exaltation.  Allura herself stares in awe as the Lions spread their wings and, one by one, descend into the heart of the village where Allura and the others all make way.  The iridescence of their feathers catches shifting beams of sunlight through the parting drizzles.  Several particularly moved individuals even fall to the mud at the sight of the pride.

Allura’s hands tremble on the sidelines, but she still feels her confidence growing as she looks into Shiro’s eyes, exchanging a glance with him and the others, and then each of their Lions in turn.  The crowd, expectant, silences itself once more but there is a certain electric hum coming from their stiff attention now.

Kaerda steps forward from the line of Lions.  Her stance is firm, eyes closed, and her breathing is steady.  With the eager crowd holding its breath, there is a faintly audible scrape as the Yellow Lion feels the earth beneath her unsheathed claws.  Broad chest rising with a deep breath, Kaerda’s pelt begins to shimmer in a pale golden glow, her claws taking on a similar light that seeps into the earth.

The scratches she’s dug crack suddenly, and Allura gasps with the crowd as they begin to take on the same color glow as Kaerda’s magic, and they score themselves into deep fissures that spread outward in a golden web across the village grounds until each fissure reaches its own pile of rubble that was once a home.

Kaerda opens her eyes, now glowing yellow as well, and her massive wings unfurl within the ripples of starry magic.  The Yellow Lion then rears, a magnificent and intimidating sight as her silhouette glints likes metal in the sun before she crashes her front paws back down to the earth with purpose.

The light from the fissures now surges from the depths of the earth into geysers like sunbeams, blasting bright enough to envelop each of the houses’ remains for but a few moments until the light begins to fade, at last leaving only a faint shimmer like dust caught in the setting sun to unveil the newly formed magic boulders built of both prior pebbles and Kaerda’s magically summoned sandstone.  Kaerda’s fissures retreat back toward her paws, and they disappear to leave not even a scar upon the ground.  It’d be as if they were never there save for the rich scent of freshly turned soil now dense in the air

Kaerda steps backward with a nod to Branoc and Irazu, and while the crowd’s sighs are impressed, there is still work to be done.

Red and Blue take Yellow’s place, and copper eyes gleam like embers as Branoc wastes no time on pleasantries.  A jet of orange-and-white flame blasts from her jaws and easily heats the nearest stone.  Then, satisfied with its malleable state, Branoc’s forge-fire claws score confidently, if perhaps a little crudely, across the faces of the stone to form holes for windows and doors.  Intermittently, Irazu lends her own icy winds to freeze Branoc’s sculptings in place before Branoc targets the next spot to perform her work. 

When finished, the Blue Lion unleashes a final, flourished gale of winter from her wings to finish forging the stone, and once both Lions have completed their methods, the audience sighs in wonder as the stones have now taken on a stunning, glassy facade Irazu and Branoc repeat the process onto each of the other stone houses until at last the village begins to take true shape, the bones of its homes now returned at last, stronger and more mystical than ever.

Kaerda then rejoins the other two at the center of the village where the precious water well was destroyed.  Though such a small structure, it is one of great importance both practically and personally to the villagers who took residence here.  Though even Kaerda’s magic is not strong enough to reforge the Balmeran crystal itself, she is able to add the fragments into her own conjured stones as she and Branoc and Irazu use their respective powers to build the well into something new yet altogether just as special.  The pieces of crystal glint the sunlight that now at last decides to show itself today, and from the corner of her eye, Allura can see Shay along with one or two other villagers wiping at their own.

Irazu soaks up the subsequent praise and admiration from the other villagers so much so that Branoc has to nip at her ear and butt her shoulder to get her to make way for Michlo, whose green pelt is already aglow with anticipation as she bounds forward.  Her eagerness and joy must be felt by the crowd as their mirth begins to scatter giggles aimed at nothing in particular.

The green light from Michlo’s paws stretches outward now to each new home, much like Kaerda’s, but the Green Lion’s travels more fluidly as it separates to form lively, glowing tendrils rather than geometric cracks.  The light crawls like vines searching for a host to climb—in fact, vines are the shape into which the lights settle as they crawl atop and around each hut and the well.

So lush are Michlo’s creations that the vines then grow grasses, more leaves, even flowers as the homes are soon roofed by beautifully sturdy and thick thatched vines and grasses whose strength will long surpass that of any straw roof.

Then, perhaps caught up in the moment, or simply perhaps she has so much to give, Michlo continues to cast out her magic further, prancing and leaping about the village to create moss beds, flower bulbs, ivy, and ferns all scattered and healthy in clumps between the buildings.  The air feels noticeably fresher, cleaner, more like in the heart of spring than in the prelude to autumn.

Though the additional flourish is appreciated, it is getting a little out of hand, frets Allura, until Kaerda shakes her head fondly and grabs Michlo by the scruff of her neck before the newly forged village is lost to overgrowth.

Last but not least steps forward Rajalti, and the Black Lion’s impending if peaceful presence is enough to command utter silence once more.  Though there is nothing left for the Lions to build here, there is one last gift Rajalti herself wishes to provide for the people of this nameless place.  With little more than a bowed head and a shimmering stretch of her dark wings, a gentle violet veil, hardly denser than cobwebs stretches into an arcing dome over the entirety of the village in the casting of the Black Lion’s blessing.

 _I grant the people of this village the gift of the skies,_ Rajalti explains into the expectant and admiring crowd.  She turns her gaze to address the residents directly.   _Though I cannot nor would not make it so that your clouds are always clear or your winds ever still, I have made it so, at the very least, you may always find safety as you look skyward.  Though this village was once destroyed by a terror carried in by dark winds, I promise you now it will only be a beacon toward which hope will be guided.  Should you ever again be in need of our aid, or simply a need to feel peace, you will be able to turn your gaze to the clouds or stars and know that we, the Leonic Angels, will always be here to defend those in need._

And thus, with the fading colors of the Lions’ magic sparkling in the air, the village is complete.

There is a moment of stillness where the Lionhearts admire their partners’ work, just as awed as the onlookers, but none of them are more deeply moved than the residents of this village, who had only so brief a time ago believed their home, a place they were meant to feel safe, was lost to dark magic.  Allura can not deny, however, that she too feels a heavy pull in her chest as she takes in this ethereal and enlivening sight.  The glassy sheen of the magic stones, the safety and comfort of the plants, the fresh water trickling not only deep in the well but in the stream that runs behind the village… and this moment of unity for all present here now.  The one things she asked of this day was that both her own people and all others of Arus come together on faith, and she can see now in their faces this has been anything but a failure.

Celebratory praise and admiration rise from the crowd in their appraisal of this maginificent occasion, but before the excitement becomes overbearing, Allura sees Rax release his sister from a happy embrace.  Shay steps forward, clearly nervous under the looming attention of so many people who’ve now trained their eyes upon her sudden movement toward Rajalti, but she does not allow her steps to falter.

She bows her head deeply to the Black Lion, hands over her heart in the deepest gesture of Balmeran respect.  “Great Lions and Lionhearts,” Shay says, voice quivering with either stage-fright or emotion, or, most likely, both, “my neighbors and I, ever since we first heard of your intended gift to us, have been discussing any way that might be suitable to thank you.”

Hunk tries to interrupt, humble and caring, “Shay, you don’t have to—”

She dismisses him earnestly with a shy smile and a nod, encouraging Hunk to let her go on, to let her say this.  She looks to Rajalti but speaks to all ten of the Angels.  “We are a small village, and we have always purposely gone unnamed.  We wanted to stay as unknown as possible, off the maps and out of the way of travelers, for it was the way we believed would keep us safe from the reaches of Zarkon and his dark armies.”

Shay turns her face to Lotor, who, Allura only now realizes, seems to have made himself small at the very back of the Leonic Angels.  But his presence has not been forgotten by Shay, and as she brings attention to him, Allura watches his shoulders tense, and she is nearly overcome by the need to come to his defense.  Vaguely she wonders if she should feel shame at such an instinct, or at the very least embarrassment, but she has no time to decide on the matter nor does it prove relevant as Shay continues her speech.

“But now, though he was indeed no friend to Arus, I and the others of my village understand Zarkon was not the true threat after all.  He was only a pawn in the Druids’ underlying control and uprising.  His Highness, Prince Lotor, learned this same truth upon slaying his father.  And now, His Highness has not inherited his father’s throne, but rather his father’s role in Haggar’s evil plans.  I believe Prince Lotor, and I believe Princess Allura in their claims.  And I thank you for bringing this truth to light.”

Allura smiles kindly at Shay.  Seeking Lotor’s reaction once more, Allura finds he is even more deeply appreciative.  Though his posture has hardly changed, it’s something in the arc of his brow or the slack in his shoulders that tells Allura he is grateful beyond words.  Usually his tongue is always at the ready for big or clever words, but he merely nods once he recovers from his initial astonishment.

Seeing the reassurance plain on Lotor’s face, Shay smiles, pleased, and returns her words to Rajalti.  “But we must thank you for restoring our home.  Though perhaps it proved not entirely safe at all, and especially now that so much attention has befallen us, it may still prove to be a place not invulnerable to the reaches of evil.  But it has also proven that the reaches of goodness and hope will always find us too.  It would be wrong to pretend we could go forever without acknowledging this.  So, as a village, as a community, as a family, my neighbors and I have decided to give our reborn home the name of Lionstar.

Rajalti’s eyes narrow in pleasure, and her emotional purrs echo through each of the Lions’ chests until even such a cumulative rumble is lost to the joyful cries and approval of the onlookers all around.  The Lions bow their heads humbly, and the Lionhearts all smile wide.  Hunk laughs, leaping from Kaerda to take Shay into a happy embrace as she bashfully buries her own smile into his chest.  The others all pile on, led by Pidge and tailed by Shiro, and Allura can feel the smile in her eyes and aching in her cheeks.

Once the clamor settles enough for her voice to rise above, Allura addresses, “Leonic Angels: Daughters of Cosra and your destined Lionhearts, through these charitable, wondrous acts you’ve performed today, you have proven your intentions to stand for all the good of Arus, down to its smallest unknown reaches.  As intended Queen of Altea, I wish to play my part in this same mission.  This is why I’ve brought Prince Lotor beside me, for his hopes are the same, and the village of Lionstar itself believes both of us.

All this said, I know where all our hearts lie, but to truly conquer the threat of Haggar and the Druids, not only must we stand up, but we must stand together.  So, Leonic Angels, I must ask you: do you stand beside me?”

In unprompted unison that sends a bout of frisson through the air, the Angels respond: “ _Now and always._ ”

Such a simple exchange, one that was not even part of the plan for today, but it does the trick.  The crowd begins to murmur amongst themselves once more, and when the cries rise above this time, they are of tearful joy.

“Leonic Angels!”

“They stand before us in their true and honest glory!”

“The Leonic Angels have sworn by Allura herself!”

“Our Queen is the Queen of Lions!”

“As if kissed by Cosra himself!”

“Allura the White Heart!”

_“Allura the White Heart!”_

And so the chants resounded, much to Allura’s surprise.  This was not so much what she’d intended, but their words, their belief, their faith and trust in Allura so bolstered at once… It shakes Allura for only a second before she finds herself so moved she must blink back tears.

At sudden loss for words, Allura glances around to each of her companions once more.  They all smile, and as perhaps in accordance with the people’s cries, the Lions themselves bow, and the Hearts atop them lower their heads.  The motion ripples throughout the crowd around them, and soon the entire audience bows before Allura—all except Coran, who tearfully spurs his horse forward with alabaster-and-moonstone crown in hand, the delicate piece freshly polished.  She hardly registers Coran placing the crown upon her head until she realizes it was last her mother’s, and at once the weight of it seems to settle into her very spine.  But the smile lines around Coran eyes pull her back to this moment, and he nods to her in place of words that would otherwise be lost among the cries of the people, but his meaning is clear as day: _They would be so proud._

Freely, Allura lets her tears fall as she basks in the approval of not only her own people, but people from all over Arus.  Such an untraditional ceremony, such unexpected results, but Allura feels such relief she could nearly collapse.  But, in spite of her contradictory claims, Allura is strong in the face of such a momentous occasion for both her and everyone around her.  Today, hope has been made truth.

 

* * *

 

The post-crowning celebrations seem meager in comparison to the show of events from today, but Allura is thankful to have the time to catch her breath.  The Balmerans of the village have wasted no time in making their best use of the new fires and herbs and resources provided by the Lions, creating a humble but no less delicious meal for as many people as they could.  

The Lions themselves have been indulging in the good spirits of the people who brave their impressive visages to approach and offer thanks or admiration—Irazu in particular is pleased to have such appreciation.  Even Branoc holds her head a little higher.  Michlo seems most occupied with the younger children wanting to play, and Kaerda keeps a watchful eye of her green sister, the smallest Lion still about the size of a healthy draft horse, making sure she does not squash any of them.

But Rajalti, violet eyes holding the wisdom of a world’s stars, stares plainly and lovingly at Allura, and Allura returns the Black Lion’s gaze with a brew of emotion she could never take the time to decipher.

The celebrations are short-lived, as the sun sets so early now and the equinox is but a week away and with it comes yet another celebration, so the jubliant crowd dissipates away from the incoming gusts of the night winds until it is only the Allura and her companions remaining in Lionstar, the procession guards chasing away any remaining awestruck onlookers.

With final warm thanks to Shay and Rax, Allura’s smile falters as she turns to see Lotor unhitching his horse, long legs easily swinging himself onto the saddle as his generals gather at his side.

“You’re leaving?” Allura asks, loath to notice the disappointment in her chest.

The remorse is reflected in a faint gleam in the prince’s eye.  He nods.  “The people of Arus have graciously given me the benefit of the doubt for now, but that will only allow me so much time.  While I admire your drive to avoid violence, Princess” he tells her with a fleeting quirk of the lip, “I’m afraid my Empire will not be reclaimed so easily, and while I am grateful for my loyal generals, I am going to need more help than they can give.

“I’ve heard upon the winds word of an insider rebellion called the Blade of Marmora who fights among the shadows to combat the unfortunate tyranny of the Empire.  While they may not be fighting for _me_ , at least we’ve a common foe, so I should like to seek them out.”

Keith takes a step forward to Allura’s left, eyes wide as he asks Lotor, “Did you say the Blade of Marmora?”

Lotor tilts his head in a mirroring of Allura’s own curiosity.  “You know of them?”

“I…”  Keith nervously glances around to the others whose curiosities have all been piqued.  He shifts under their stares, then relentingly sighs.  “My mother is one of them.”

Everyone but Shiro and Lotor regard Keith with newfound surprise.  Keith makes it a point to keep his eyes on Lotor, confidence returning.  “I want to find her.  Let me go with you.  Please.”

Allura was always so close to her mother, and Alís in turn acted as so much of a mother to Keith and Shiro that Allura paid scarce consideration to their actual families; all she really knew is they share only a father who died, and thusly Keith’s mother was obviously Galra.  She never asked after her further, but now certain missing pieces of Keith are falling into place in her mind.

Shiro approaches his half-brother to grasp his shoulder warmly.  “Keith, are you sure about this?” he asks so quietly Allura fears she should perhaps not have heard.

Keith looks to Shiro with a toiling of emotion Allura has never seen set into his features.  His reply is just as hushed, but Keith’s tension cracks his voice.  “Shiro, this is my first real chance—maybe my _only_ chance to find her.  You know what this means to me.  I have to.”

Lance interjects loudly, “I really don’t think we should be splitting up!”

Allura wants to cuff him over the back of the head, but she has to admit he has a point.  She refrains from saying so however upon seeing the additional distress in Keith’s face.

Instead Allura folds her hands in front of her in her hope to avoid appearing intrusive, and she tells Keith, “My people hold the strong belief that you must pay mind to your past in order to walk a braver future.  I won’t ask you share your past with us all, but if you need answers only your mother can give, then I will certainly respect your need to find those answers.  That is, of course,” she adds with a glance to Lotor, “if His Highness agrees to your company.”

“I’d be honored,” Lotor replies genuinely.

Growing hopeful, Keith blinks gratefully at them both, but Lance isn’t convinced.  “We just made all these promises about unity and that we’re all here to make it better, and you want to _leave?”_

“Lance,” Allura admonishes.

Less sharp, Hunk intercedes, much more rational.  “I mean, if anything now would be the time to go.  Today’s ceremony seemed to chill out a lot of the bad vibes people have been having, and the Remembrance Festival is just around the corner, so those good spirits oughta last a while.  I think you should go.”

Having been housing Keith since the day after Alís death, Hunk has likely gained a little more insight to Keith than the rest of them, save Shiro.  Hunk has never been the type to press beyond where he’s been welcomed—however, such a warm and safe demeanor as Hunk’s leaves most people feeling comfortable enough to open in full, even if it’s in as gradual of steps as Keith’s.  They share a fond look and Keith nods to Hunk appreciatively.

Lance scowls, but any further argument is cut off by Rover as he trills and darts over to lap his grey tongue over Keith’s striped cheek.

Pidge giggles.  “He’s saying goodbye.”

“Not goodbye,” Shiro says, smiling encouragingly at Keith.  “Whatever happens, you’ll come back stronger, and we’ll all be here when you do.”

They strength of their hug is one only shared by those who’ve stood together against the world, and Allura casts her gaze aside in an instinctive need to give them their moment.  Before she can direct her attention elsewhere, her eyes find Lotor’s atop his horse, and she again looks away quickly and motions to tuck a stray hand behind her heating ear.

“Will you come with me?” Keith asks Branoc who rises to her feet before he’s even finished the sentence.

_To the ends of the earth, my Heart._

Doubts abated for now, Keith nods again and he and Branoc cross to join Lotor’s small group.

“Unfortunately, Red Lion,” Lotor regrets, “it’s likely for the best you fly above us on this excursion.  While the Leonic Angels have been received with joy, a single Lion will only now draw the most unwanted of attentions.”

The palest grey smoke puffs from Branoc’s nostrils, but the prince is right, and she nods in curt agreement.

“We’ll fit you with a horse from Zethrid’s stables,” Ezor, one of Lotor’s says.  Zethrid, the second general, contests to this at her side with a firm pat of her feathery draft mare’s thick neck.

Keith shifts his weight.  “I, um… I don’t know how to ride.”

“All that time on the Garrett farm and you never rode a horse?” Pidge teases.

“Shiro and I always traveled on foot, and then I had Branoc.”

Lotor cracks a rare, full smile.  “Luckily, I consider myself an excellent teacher.  Hop on,” he encourages, steering his horse sideways and gesturing to the space just big enough for a second rider.

Keith couldn’t appear less excited or at ease as he complies awkwardly, but Lotor responsibly secures his passenger as he and his generals gallop away with few more words of parting.

Breaking the following silence, Lance sounds helpless as he turns to Shiro.  “You’re really just gonna let him go?”

Shiro sighs, still staring after the horizon where the motley Galran crew has faded to but a speck.  “Our dad asked me to watch out for him.  I’ve tried to be there for him, but the pain he’s felt from being part-Galra… I’ll never understand that.  But I do understand that he wants answers.  If Lotor can help him make some kind of peace with that part of himself, I’ll only be grateful.”

Allura nods, hoping to soothe Lance’s concerns—and maybe even, she considers with a sad smile, a bit of hurt at Keith’s departure.  “You remember where you’ve been Lance.  You pay mind to your past.  Let Keith uncover his own.”

Reason sinking in, Lance relents, but still his unhappiness is clear.  “Well, he’s gonna miss the Festival’s Gala, which is probably gonna be way more fun anyway.”

“You really think _that’s_ where Keith would rather be?” Hunk chuckles.

“Oh!” Allura remembers suddenly, thinking of the gala and thusly Matt.  She retrieves Matt’s old glasses from Lenora’s saddlebags.  “Pidge, I found these and wanted to give them back.  I doubt Matt will have much further use as they are, but you’re innovative and I’d hate to simply toss them.”

Pidge takes the spectacles, smiling in fond disbelief as she tucks them into the pocket of her own dress.  “I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

While the others resume their chatter amongst themselves, Shiro approaches Allura, and just low enough for her to hear, he sheepishly begins, “Speaking of Matt…”

Lately, after working with the Lionhearts alongside the Holt guard, Shiro has been gaining a lot of confidence as a leader and instructor, his voice taking on an effective air of comfortable authority, but now he angles himself away as if unwilling to finish his thought.

Allura blinks at him patiently, and Shiro relents with an embarrassed smile, “I was wondering if you could teach me a thing or two about dancing.”


	3. Remember Not to Forget

The Remembrance Festival is a seven-day event held within the neutral borders of the Holt kingdom in the time leading up to the autumnal equinox.  The kingdom has always boasted a royal family member to represent the spirit of each season, and each representative is the designated host of their respective seasonal festival.

As it so happens, Matt was indeed chosen as the autumn spirit, and thus organizing the Remembrance Festival each year falls upon his shoulders.  This festival, as its name so graciously implies, is intended to be a time of peace for all kingdoms to look backward and appreciate all that has been done in the land of Arus, and to pay homage to the past as the year wanes.

Come this time of year, the summer’s harvests are reaped, people’s clothing becomes heavier, and mugs become warmer.  The smell of damp leaves fills the air, but in spite of the gloomier weather, the festivities are merry ones enjoyed by all with celebrations including things like apple-bobbing and pumpkin carving competitions, contests for the best mulled cider recipe, and of course the renowned gala held upon the night of the equinox itself.

The gala, though spectacular and lively, is altogether a simple ceremony when it comes down to it—rather straightforward, like most any other ball.  Really the most significant difference is the customary Remembrance Waltz: the first dance to be had by the autumn spirit and a partner of their choosing to represent the falling of autumn’s first leaves.

“It’s so cheesy,” Matt was telling Shiro during their private sparring practice today, the clunks and thwacks of the training staves echoing gently in the depths of Shiro’s mind just as they echoed into the stillness of the wood.  “But at least the food’s always good; Hunk’s family has done most of the cooking for the gala once we found out how incredible their culinary skills are.”

While the team usually trains together, Shiro was fine letting everyone else indulge in the festivities this week, but Matt on the other hand found it a great reprieve to step away from it all for an evening.  For Shiro too the session served as much of a distraction as he’ll ever get from Keith’s gaping absence.

There is a bit of irony, he must relent, in recalling how long he went without even knowing of Keith, but once they were thrown together, they’ve been inseparable until now.  It’s odd to be without him, to say the very least.

But Shiro’s indeed been in such excellent company with Matt and the others.  They’ve been working hard on their bonds, both magical and otherwise.  Shiro really feels like the Leonic Angels are becoming a pride to be proud of, and judging by the hum of warmth he’s been feeling from Rajalti these days, it’s safe to say she is in agreement.

 _You are raising a most formidable team,_ she has praised him.

“We’re raising each other,” Shiro said to her.  “We’re getting stronger because we’re getting closer, more open.  I’m proud of them all.”

Shiro smiles as he recalls the last sighs of summer tumbling through the fast-darkening glade and cooling the sheens of sweat on his and Matt’s skin.  The sun faded into but a blush on the indigo of night, and at last their adrenaline too waned, but even in the shaded forest Shiro’s doubts must have been upon his face plain as day.

“You need to lighten up,” Matt told him with a wink, climbing atop Ochre and readying to prance back to the castle.

Shiro confessed, “I still think this festival just paints us all as a huge target for the Druids.”

“We’ve been alright so far.”  Matt’s smile was sympathetic.  “Just have a little faith.”

Shiro scoffed in a weak retort.  “I thought you weren’t into that.”

“I don’t believe in much.”  The near-permanent quirk of Matt’s lips faltered a bit as he leaned in close once more, precariously but confidently hanging off the side of Ochre with both hands cupping Shiro’s face.  “But I believe in this,” he said with a smile, pulling Shiro into a gentle kiss.

It had to be at that exact moment, even if Shiro didn’t quite realize it, that Rajalti became sure without a doubt.  In fact, she’s been quite sure this entire time—it’s been a bit of an elephant in the room for them both.

 _You are falling in love with him,_  she says now as together she and her Heart sit atop one of the highest plateaus in the kingdom from which they see a twilit scape of sleeping greens, their summer lives spent and now resting in wait for the warmest days to return once more.  In their place burn the scarlets and golds indicative of the Remembrance Festival’s time, but those fires too are now quelled in the velvet blanket of night.

The equinox is tomorrow, and the skies of its eve are clear and full of all the many stars and galaxies and planets Shiro’s never taken the liberty to learn by name.  Matt would know them; he knows all about those formations and trajectories… He knows the world above his head better than the one beneath his feet.  Shiro should get around to asking him more about it.

This night in particular has been warmer than expected—not hot, but certainly comfortable enough that the winds playing with the strands of gilded hair in Shiro’s eyes is not entirely unwelcome against the heat in his face.  “It’s not that simple,” he tries to argue with his Lion upon whose flank he currently rests.

Rajalti decides against a snarky response and sighs in gauging Shiro’s sense of hesitation.   _Still you are so afraid, my cub.  What is it?_

It’s a fear Shiro has had for so long now that it briefly astounds him he’s never yet voiced it aloud.  Turning his head over his shoulder toward his Lion, Shiro’s eyes are still cast aside; his throat threatens to close at the mere summons of the thought, but he swallows hard to speak his mind: “How can I be sure it’s real?”

It comes out as a whisper, and Shiro works his jaw weakly in order to strengthen his voice.  “Amaria, it… This bond with Matt, it’s unlike anything I’ve ever known before.  It’s allowed us to grow so close so quickly, and it’s been… intoxicating, but… How am I supposed to know what I feel for Matt isn’t something just brought on by accidental magic?”

Patiently, Rajalti blinks, taking a moment before responding—a moment in which Shiro is sure she seems amused at what, to her, must seem such naïvete.  _I understand how you might think as much, but I assure you; your heart does not lie.  The magic of Amaria cannot reveal that which is not already there._

Unconvinced, Shiro’s brow furrows as he searches the horizon, remaining silent in his brood upon both of their words.

 _Tell me, my cub,_ Rajalti prompts with a gentle nudge of his shoulder with her nose. _When you look at him, what is it you see?_

The question catches Shiro off-guard, but at once his mind conjures the image of Matt in so many different circumstances in which he’s struck Shiro with feelings indescribable: the furrowing of his features when he’s deep in thought, the quirk of his lips perfectly revealing that single, slightly crooked tooth.  

Shiro remembers the softness of him that first night Shiro was invited to the castle and he and Matt had fallen asleep talking, and too he remembers the softness of him upon waking and the glowing image of his tousled hair in the morning sun’s embrace.

Shiro thinks of the way Matt’s kisses always take the shape of smiles, sometimes so wide and infectious they can’t ever kiss for long; he’s so ready to laugh at any moment, and even now in retrospect it brings a smile to Shiro’s face.

He considers Matt’s complete disregard for time, how with him there truly is no time like the present, and while perhaps these impulses could lead to danger at some point, there is undoubtedly a particular charm and admirability about his lack of restraint.

But what does he _see?_    Shiro doesn’t think he can come up with a sure answer, and so he hesitates to hazard one for Rajalti’s question.

Regardless, she purrs deep against him, taking her own sort of joy in feeling the warmth and wonder blooming through Shiro at even the thought of Matt.

Rajalti does not gloat nor tease, but she says to Shiro with a certain sense of light yet deep fondness,  _You forget I can feel as you do,_ _though I am unhindered by your doubts.  So, if ever you should come to find that you cannot trust your heart, trust mine._

 

* * *

 

Shiro believed that the nightmare thing was finally under control; even this dream doesn’t set off any red flags as it begins with Matt merrily pulling him along through the castle and through a pair of great ornate doors into the castle ballroom.  The place is aglow in rich warmth, golden lantern light abundant and caught upon the faces of golden floors, golden walls, the golden threads of revelers’ gowns.  But none of the light surpasses that of Matt’s face as he smiles with eyes soft—eyes only for Shiro.

Shiro’s heart soars just high enough for it to drop when the lanterns blow out and the room falls dark.

Shiro can’t find the threat, but he feels it somewhere in here.  Only first does he find himself falling fast and landing flat on his back, wind rushing from his torso.

He tries to gather his bearings as the shapes in the room become more visible.  But the light isn’t a merciful one—rather, the ballroom is cast in a dim and ghostly blue, like that of a night lit by the moon.

Blinking it all in, Shiro realizes he’s too late—he locks eyes with a terrified Matt, his face clearly having been struck as his bloodied lips try to form words Shiro can’t make out.  Shiro trembles upon taking in the glint of steel at Matt’s throat and only now sees a faceless, shadowy captor restraining Matt in powerful arms.

Matt’s cry for help comes out a hoarse whisper, and appearing at his side then are Pidge and their parents, all similarly captured and blades too at their throats.

Shiro has to move; he has to save them!  He lurches forward, but his feet won’t move until the room floods with billowing fog from shattered windows.  Shiro tries to call out for the other Lionhearts, the Lions, anyone who might hear him, but his cries are stolen from his chest before they can even pierce the air.

He’s running now, but the distance between he and the Holts is farther than it should be, but finally, finally he reaches the other side only to discover Pidge has vanished completely, and Sam and Colleen are collapsed upon the ground in puddles too dark to be water.

Only Matt and the shrouded figure behind him with Matt’s fate in his hands remain standing before Shiro.  The hand holding the bloodied dagger drops the weapon and moves that same hand to peel back the hood shadowing their face.

Slowly, the cloth unfolds, and Shiro sees his own face smiling coldly back at him.

Shiro wakes with a start.

In a cold sweat, Shiro clasps a hand over his dry mouth, sitting up carefully in his bunk in the guards’ barracks.  With slow, measured breaths through his nose, he manages to get a hold of himself without waking any of the other guards, but still his bones rattle beneath his skin.  He can’t help it—Shiro rises and makes his way to Matt’s chambers for his own peace of mind.

But, after passing through the hall, Shiro finds the door to Matt’s room is half-open, and upon stepping inside, he discovers the room currently unoccupied.  Before worrying, Shiro crosses the floor to peer down from the window and into the garden and—there.  Fast asleep, Matt lies amidst a smattering of scrolls and leaflets and scraps all atop a blanket at the base of his telescope.

Shrugging off the last clutches of his dream, Shiro makes his way down through the castle and into the massive gardens.  Whatever Matt was observing has surely been lost behind the heavy layer of clouds brought in by the night’s pleasantly unchilled winds.  The telltale scent of coming rain escorts Shiro through the hedges and past the pools and bushes and saplings until he is able to carefully maneuver through Matt’s chaotic sprawl of paper and kneels on the ground next to him.

Shiro smiles to himself as he brushes Matt’s hair aside to kiss his temple.  Lips lingering, Shiro whispers a greeting in Matt’s ear, voice low but still enough to stir Matt into wakefulness with a sharp inhale.

Matt’s brow furrows for a second as he recalls his whereabouts, but he smiles through sleepy eyes upon recognizing Shiro.  “Hi,” he says, sitting up with a yawn.

“Hi.”  Shiro smiles back, but the merciful postponement of the rain ends promptly before they can say anything else.

The mild but persistent drizzle chills them at once.  Matt curses, leaping to his feet and grabbing unorganized piles of his materials, laughing all the while either from the delirium of his sleepful state or perhaps from the adrenaline at such an exciting awakening.  Regardless, it’s enough to infect Shiro with his own laughter as he helps Matt frantically gather his things.

Matt stuffs everything into a pack, and lastly grabs his telescope and its tripod.  Shiro almost misses the rogue pencil that slips from Matt’s pack.  As he retrieves it, he is struck by the memory of when Shiro first met Matt, when they quite similarly picked up likely these very same materials from the cobbles of the market district.  In Shiro’s weary yet delighted late-night stupor, the _déjà vu_ might have been just enough to stun him if Matt wasn’t already grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the nearest gazebo built ornately atop one of the streams now enlivened by the falling rain.

The sprint for cover leaves them both catching their breath, and Matt takes a seat upon the bench with his pack on his lap.

“How’s that for timing?” Shiro says, taking a seat next to Matt and handing him the pencil.

“Why don’t you make it stop?” Matt laughs, beginning to rustle and root through his things to return them to some semblance of order.

“Stop the rain?”

“Yeah, I dunno, I thought maybe you might have some sort of weather powers since you’re like, the Sky Lionheart or whatever.”

Shiro laughs.  “Not that I’m aware of.”

“Well, get on it.”  Matt bumps into his shoulder, setting the pack aside so he can turn his torso toward Shiro with a look of unexpected but smiling scrutiny.  He brushes the bit of damp hair from Shiro’s eyes; he doesn’t usually let it grow this long.  “You’re looking rugged,” Matt remarks, surely noting too the breach of shadow upon Shiro’s normally close-shaved jaw.  “What are you doing up so late?”

“Rescuing His Highness from the elements,” Shiro retorts elusively.  “Why couldn’t the rest of this wait until tomorrow night?”

“Because,” Matt says, his exhaustion beginning to weigh in his voice as he leans his shoulder into Shiro with such comfort and ease that the warmth of it flushes through Shiro; maybe it’s just because the rain chilled his skin, but Shiro’s heart skips a beat all the same.  “Tomorrow is the gala, and all the lights and fireworks and everything will just pollute the sky.  So I stayed out trying to make extra progress tonight. But, of course...”  He flicks a hand skyward to indicate the precipatory situation.

“What’s the end goal?” Shiro asks, genuinely curious of Matt’s studies and simultaneously sorry he hasn’t asked much after them before.

Matt shrugs.  “There isn’t one really.  This is just sort of… an ongoing hobby.”

“You seem pretty invested in something that’s just a hobby.”

“Okay, maybe ‘hobby’ isn’t the right word,” Matt laughs.  “More of a senseless passion, I guess.”  He turns around to face Shiro with a tired smile.  “Nothing important.”

Shiro regards Matt with curiosity.  “That’s not true.”  He tucks a stray tendril of hair behind Matt’s ear.  “You care about it, so it’s important.”

Matt searches Shiro’s face, debating, and then coming to some conclusion, his smile splits his face in half.  “Okay, here, I’ll show you.  Gimme your hand.”

Baffled, Shiro obliges if only to make sure the smile stays on Matt’s face.

His touch on Shiro’s palm sets the magic alight, and then Matt releases his fingers.  “Okay, wait, no, okay, so—”  He’s thinking rapidly, hands hovering.  Shiro moves to retrieve his own hand, but Matt points to the roof of the gazebo, atop which the rain has been steadily pattering in the most soothing way.  “Hold your hand here,” Matt instructs.

Again, Shiro obliges, and Matt’s thinking face resumes for a moment, gnawing at his lip as he directs Shiro’s upraised arm a little to the left—no, down—little more—wait, back—okay, there.  Then, with utmost precision and deliberation, Matt takes his index finger to use as a pen, the violet light of Shiro’s skin his ink, and he proceeds to illustrate a series of dots that provide the waypoints for a line he draws to connect them.  He traces the pattern over and over to make sure it doesn’t fade.

“Okay, so if you’re looking here,” he explains, focused, “in the sky, I mean, and you see a pattern like this?  That’s the constellation Shayar—you know, the sea wolf?”

Shiro nods, vaguely familiar with the old myth of the drowned dog whose howl steers the winds for sailors.

“And then if you find _this_ star—” Matt pointedly dots the light on the farthest edge of Shayar’s image, “—and then follow it _here—_ ” he moves Shiro’s hand accordingly to the northwest, “you find Kiga the Lamb.”

“Who wasn’t a lamb at all, but a gentle giant,” Shiro denotes as Matt draws the constellation.

“Very impressive, Master Shirogane; that’s one of the longer stories from the archives.”

Shiro shrugs.  “I like long stories.”

Silly as they likely seem doing so, Matt continues to test Shiro’s knowledge and exploit his own of the map of stars behind the clouds whose rainfall carries on by replicating it upon Shiro’s skin.  Matt’s drawings start in the palm and sometimes move up the arm in such a casual, purposeful way that Shiro hardly registers the true intimacy of the contact.  He hardly registers much at all beyond the fluidity of Matt’s language of the stars and the expertise with which he draws the sky from memory—Shiro switching arms occasionally when one starts to tingle while Matt recites with ease his knowledge of how these stars and planets and systems shine and travel around them during the days and months.

His prattling carries on without fail, and Shiro is content to just watch the way his eyes shed their tiredness when talking of his passion.  There’s nothing else in the world as Matt goes on, for either of them, until Matt nudges Shiro’s shoulder with his own.

“You’re not even looking,” he accuses with a laugh.

Shiro shakes his head, embarrassed he actually was paying attention to perhaps the wrong things, and apologizes with a smile.  “I am; I’m looking.”

“Your hand’s too small for the Great Herd.”  Matt draws four dots and connects them in a shape similar to the numeral 4.  “That’s the best I can do, but it stretches off up and over a couple different ways—more of a tree than a herd of deer, honestly.  But I guess I can see it.”

“I see it,” Shiro says, speaking softer than he meant to; Rajalti’s question has returned to the front of his mind as he watches Matt: _When you look at him, what do you see?_

He answers both her and Matt aloud, vague but certain.  “I see everything.”

Matt catches something in Shiro’s voice and drops his hand to look at him with gentle eyes.  He doesn’t say anything, but Shiro can sense the deep flush of his own stirring emotions as he takes his same index finger to trail it along the light stubble of Shiro’s face before kissing him sweetly, his lips carrying the faintest taste of rain.

 

* * *

 

Barging through the door to Pidge’s chamber room, Matt doesn’t at first pay much mind to whatever she tinkers with at her desk.  Rover yips with surprise, but Pidge doesn’t even flinch.

“Hey,” he demands, just ready to get this night over with, “have you seen my other earring?  It looks like this.”  He unfastens the unmatched piece from his ear and dangles it on an outstretched arm.

“No,” Pidge says without even turning to look.

Matt frowns, but then he relents to his own curiosity.  “What are you making, anyway?  You’ve been holed up for half a week.”

She turns her head halfway over her shoulder but still retains focus on her task.  “Just a thing.”

“A thing?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“So, it’s for me?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Whatever,” Matt sighs, too preoccupied with the gala to concern himself with his dodgy sister for now.  “Just get dressed; we’re already late.”

“No,” Pidge corrects. _“You’re_ late.”

“You have to come with me.”

“No, I don’t.”

 _“Katieee,”_ Matt groans, dramatically drudging his fancy-sandal-clad feet across the floor to drape himself over Pidge’s shoulders, his weight enough to finally disrupt her work enough for her to spin around and face him.  Matt slides to his knees, unconcerned about dirtying the delicate ceremonial robes and lays his head on Pidge’s lap.  “You know I hate public speaking.”

From the desk, Rover coos sympathetically, but Pidge simply chides, “You’re gonna ruin your face paint.  Besides, you’ve always done fine with it before.  Look, you’re putting on a show right now.”

Miserable, Matt lifts his head to scowl at her, internally grateful not to see any red or gold cosmetic paint smudges on her skirts.  “I need moral support.”

“You have no morals.”

“You _are_ the worst.”  Matt playfully ruffles the top of her head to skew her braided hair.  Pidge whines in annoyance and swats at him.

“I thought Shiro was your escort anyway,” she says, trying not to laugh.

Matt grimaces as he again stands, uncertainty creeping into his posture.  “I don’t know if it’s for the best we waltz all over the place in front of everyone.”

“Why not?”

“Shiro showing up here in the first place after fleeing the arena was suspicious enough for everyone, don’t you think?  We really don’t need people to take note of the purple-sparkly-magic thing.”

“Are you embarrassed of him?” Pidge poses.

“What?  No!  I’m just—you know, customs…”  Matt squirms in place, tucking into himself.

Pidge barks a harsh laugh.  “Yeah, because that’s what you’ve always cared about.”

“I just think there’s enough attention on the Leonic Angels as it is.  We don’t need gossip on top of that.”  Matt begins to drawl his words in a nasal, uppity cadence, mocking the high-society hens with dramatic gestures that draw laughter from Pidge: “‘Oh, have you _heeeard_ of the absolute _scandalous_ rrroyal rrromance within the Holt kingdom?  How simply _booold_ of the Prince to positively _parade_ his secret love affair in front of half of Arus!  Where is the class?  Where are the customary proposals?  The _shame!_ ’”  Matt sighs, breaking character.  “I really don’t want to deal with it, and I really doubt Shiro would either.  Or Mom and Dad for that matter.”

Pidge’s laughter subsides.  Rover nuzzles into her lap, and she scratches under his chin.  After a beat she shrugs and asks, _“Do_ you?”

“Do I what?”

“Love him.”

Matt scoffs, about to snap back with a snarky response, but his voice catches in his throat.  As if it were that simple.   _Does_ he love Shiro?  How could he possibly answer that?  The word love even feels strange on his mind’s tongue.  His family isn’t the squishy, mushy type to outwardly display their affections save for very special occasions—their love for each other manifests itself in different, yet still undeniable ways.

But that’s family love.  Is Shiro family?  No, you don’t kiss family.  Not like he kisses Shiro.  But kisses don’t have to mean love.  How many one-offs did Matt kiss just as a way for him to feel free and in control and just to have some fun for a while?  Easily a handful, Matt counts, because being prince meant the rules about ongoing, “normal” relationships were different.  Formal announcements of courting, formal acceptances, yuck and blah.

So Matt doesn’t have anything substantial to compare Shiro to, and even if he did, the circumstances with Shiro are a little different even from other people’s concept of a normal romantic relationship—how many people literally light up at their lover’s touch even before they became lovers?

Lovers is an even weirder word than love.  Lover sounds so… instigating.  It’s an action; loving is a thing that can be done.  Is it something Matt is doing?  With Shiro?  Is he loving Shiro, right now?  Would he be questioning it if he did?   _You just know._  That’s what people say, right?  Matt doesn’t know.  Matt hates not knowing.  He loves to know things—that’s a different kind of love too.

Sure, Matt shared Shiro’s most traumatic fears and memories through the shadow plane, and that’s certainly a good way to get close to someone quick.  And sure, meeting Shiro and watching his skin catch violet fire under Matt’s touch and only Matt’s touch may have been enough to make Matt question the beliefs that have shaped most of his identity, but really, anyone could do that.  That doesn’t mean you love them.

During Matt’s internal crisis, his sister watches with bored patience.  When Matt simply cannot reply, she shrugs.  “It shouldn’t be that hard.”  She turns back to her workbench and resumes her mysterious inventing as if they merely discussed the weather.  Matt blinks wearily, wishing feelings were as easy as looking out the window to establish if it’s raining or not.

He swallows.  “Just get ready.  And I’m taking these,” he adds, spotting a pair of garnet earrings at her hectic vanity—something much fancier than he normally dons for these, but at least it’s a complete set.

Matt tosses the exchanged lone earring into Pidge’s jewelry before leaving her chambers, fingers inexplicably unsteady as he fumbles with the loaned pair.

Matt rounds the corner and just barely avoids colliding right into Shiro’s chest.

“Oh!  Hi,” Matt says, pleasantly surprised.

“Hi,” Shiro says, an equally surprised smile spreading curiously across his face as he begins to sputter helplessly in an attempt at diffusing his own flusteredness.  “Wow, you look, um… I’m—I mean, I haven’t been to a—uh, I mean I’ve never seen you—Um, your parents sent me to come find you.  They said everyone’s waiting for the toast.”

Matt is grateful his cosmetics are themed in red tones to hide the blush underneath all the paints, and he too tries to shrug off the pitter-pattering of his heart despite never once before feeling so self-conscious in this particular getup.  “Right, yes, okay,” he assures unconvincingly, grabbing Shiro’s hand to tow him along toward the ballroom.

Matt makes it a point to keep his eyes strictly ahead and not looking upon Shiro who’s polished enough in his own right with the deep midnight blue dress clothes loaned to him by Matt’s father—the outfit a pinnacle of its outdated time, but on Shiro, it’s brought very much back to life.  Then there’s that handsome bit of stubble forming along Shiro’s jaw that is undoubtedly a result exclusive to poor scheduling, but all the same the vague ruggedness of it is doing things to Matt’s stomach.  All this plus the way he looked at Matt just now?

No time for stupid, drunken, flaming gut-butterflies; there’s a gala to get on with.

Matt can’t help but notice, though, as they near the massive doors to the ballroom that Shiro begins to slow his pace.  Looking over his shoulder, Matt could swear Shiro’s seen a ghost.  “What’s wrong?” he asks.

Snapping out of it a second too late to convince Matt, Shiro shakes his head and offers a half-smile.  “Nothing.  Just, not a fan of crowds.”

Matt blinks at him but decides not to push the matter.  “Me either,” he sighs, dropping Shiro’s hand as the guardsmen at the door push open the enormous arched wood and a man announces the entrance of Matt’s presence as he passes through into the room.

While Shiro expertly maneuvers his way around the sidelines to descend one set of spiral stairs to meet up with Lance below, Matt crosses to his parents’ side at the balcony and is welcomed by a swell of applause and approval from the revelers who blanket the lower floor beneath his family’s platform.

He is also met with the most unexpected melancholy, for it is only now in all his years of princehood that it really, truly sinks in with him how hollow the people’s approval is.  After hearing of Allura’s crowning ceremony, it was obvious she became instantly beloved in full, but it was due to her words and who she is.  Her people love their Queen, as they should, but with his own family, Matt knows he’s done nothing to earn such a reaction other than wear the expected clothing and perform the expected rituals.

How sobering it is to understand at once that anyone at all could be standing in his place, hosting this festival and raising this champagne glass to toast the gala, and the wine-flushed guests below would greet them all the same.

Such an inappropriate time for sadness, and such an unfitting sensation of loneliness by which to be assaulted as Matt stands above the merry crowd below.  It leaks into his speech, the words he delivers as hollow as the cheers they are met with, but no one even seems to notice.  Matt does what the kingdom has expected of him, and that alone is cause for celebration.

Though his voice sounds distant and his posture slumping for sure, Matt manages to keep his pasted on smile, and as Pidge runs up to his side in full ceremonial garb with Rover wearing his silken ribbon, the spokesman at the top of the stairs announces, “And now it is time for His Highness Prince Matthew’s first dance of the gala, the first dance of the season: the Remembrance Waltz!”

The crowd once again cheers, and Matt is certain their enthusiasm is only for the festivities to come after his customary dance, and this uncharacteristic cynicism of his really brings him to a halt.

Matt’s eyes scan the onlookers below until they lock with Shiro’s who looks at him with concern; clearly he’s the only one with a true inkling that something is plaguing Matt’s mind.

He aimlessly casts his eyes about the room to pretend he’s searching for a partner.  A few eager young faces desperate to make themselves feel important raise their hands and jump excitedly, a few friends giggling amongst each other and pretending they only find Matt attractive because he’s a prince.   _This is not the time for such a negative perspective,_ he chides himself.   _Get a hold of yourself!_

Matt’s eyes again find Shiro’s, and Matt can’t bring himself to look away this time.  With newfound conviction, Matt says to Pidge at his shoulder, “You’re right.”

“I know,” she says plainly.  “About what?  Where are you going?”

But Matt’s already taking long, urgent strides across the marble platform, hand trailing along the railing of the balcony and then the stairs as he reclaims his regal elegance and descends without ever taking his eyes off Shiro until he stops just in front of him, ignoring Lance’s knowing snicker as the Blue Heart moves to join the other musicians at the far side of the ballroom.

Matt flashes Shiro a joyously mischievous smile.  “You’re my first dance.”

Shiro’s eyes dance with both delight and surprise, as if he was somehow prepared for Matt to ask but didn’t really expect it.  The crowd applauds their approval of Matt’s selection, and at once the orchestra doles out its first note of the ancient waltz.

The golden flares of lamps and string lights dazzle throughout the room, sprinklings of magic glitter motes in the air.  The decorations and ambiance are rich and lively as they always are, and all the guests are dressed in their finest cloth, waiting all year to wear their most illustrious gowns and suits.  In spite of all these awe-inspiring things, Shiro’s the only thing right now Matt wants to look at.

He offers Shiro his hand as per custom, and as per custom, Shiro takes it and presses a kiss upon Matt’s fingers.  They’re both fighting hysterical grins for formality’s sake, but the memory of their first spar after they met is fresh in both their minds.  

It’s a wordless exchange, and fluidly Matt and Shiro assume the dance’s embrace.  The wind section exhales, and Matt takes the lead.

They step and sweep each other along, moving in natural rhythm to the gently swelling music as if this was something they’ve been doing for years.  A slight tug of the arm pulls Matt in close enough that he can speak softly and still be heard over the music.  “I thought you weren’t a dancer; you’re pretty good at this.”

“I thought I’d surprise you,” Shiro says, smiling to himself.

They pull away, stepping apart and then rejoining close again.  This time they hold each other’s stares, eyes glittering in the lights scattered all around the room as they circle each other with fingers laced rather than palms flat.

Shiro carefully jerks his arm, drawing Matt in close before he gracefully steps to the side, ivory robes moving so easily with his legs.  Matt’s done this a thousand times, but this is the first time he’s really been so lost to the music and the steps and the postures, his mind straying and focusing all at the same time as he really and truly takes this moment for all its worth, taking in the sight and touch and synchronicity with Shiro.  He wonders if Amaria feels anything like this.

With another twirl Shiro is able to bring his mouth to Matt’s ear this time, his breath against Matt’s neck sending a shiver prancing over his skin.  “You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Matt’s face is turned away, and he keeps his tone light as their normal banter, but Shiro surely feels him fluster as he denies, “You’re the sparkly one.”

“You have your own kind of light,” Shiro insists before unleashing Matt back onto the floor, their steps apart but in perfect time.  Shiro’s hand herds Matt by the waist back against him, and the melody crescendos as the percussion ceases to signal the end of the song.

Shiro holds Matt in the final post until the reverberations fade, and as Matt holds him back he has to push away the thought of, _Don’t let him go, and you won’t have to stop._ That’s not true, of course, and perhaps it’d be silly to just stand here arm in arm, and Matt’s drawing enough attention as it is with this being his festival and surely looking a regular smitten fool in spite of his earlier intention for discretion.  But Shiro looks at him now with such reverence that it takes Matt’s breath away.

The song has ended, and customary applause for the prince’s first dance rattles around the room.  But against propriety, Matt doesn’t step away at once and bow, acknowledging the continuance of the remainder of the night’s dances and exchanges.  Instead, for only but a few moments longer, he and Shiro stand still, gazes never leaving the other’s, pressed together far closer than the dance required.

Shiro unlaces their fingers to brush a stray tendril out of Matt’s face.  His fingers trail gently along Matt’s jaw even when the hair has been firmly tucked away.  The two indulge a moment of tension in which they try to say everything without ever speaking a word, and the enormous audience alone is the only reason Matt doesn’t pull Shiro into a kiss.  He is flooded with a warmth unrelated to the fire-warmed room.

Regretful indeed, Matt pulls away first and most likely for the best.  He smiles belatedly to the crowd and eagerly claps the orchestra into the next number as the guests proceed to rotate partners.

Matt exhales a breath he should have exhaled long ago, and he blushes at the immediate recollection of everything the dance made him feel—everything _Shiro_ makes him feel.  Laughing at himself, Matt moves to leave the floor, and tries to resume the gala as normal despite what seems like a weightless path of stars beneath his every step.  He glances up to catch Pidge’s eye as she descends to join the dances, and she cocks an eyebrow at him with a conspiratorial grin.

But then the atmosphere shifts.

Matt’s not the only one to sense it.  It’s like the air begins to fill with a buzz, a lively invisible mist of warning that fills the room and silences the crowd as they all stop to listen.  The orchestra stills, and in the dead silence of the room, the windows can be heard rattling in their frames.

The glass panes of the latticed skylight in the dome of the ceiling are no exception.  Matt’s eyes scan the night sky above to find most of the stars blotted out by the influx of dark cloud cover.

And then the skylight shatters, and all the windows too.

The crowd shrieks and all duck for cover from the rain of shards.  When the debris settles, Matt lifts his head slowly upon hearing Shiro’s worried voice: “Rajalti?”

Dropping his arm from his face, Matt sees the Black Lion in the center of the room, the people all swarming to the walls to give her space along with Irazu, Kaerda, and Michlo who come diving in through the roof after her.

Michlo waits for no pleasantries and bounds across the floor toward Pidge, and at the same time Rajalti warns, _They are here!_

There’s no time to guess who she means; at once a swirl of shadows rounds the border of the ballroom and in sparking dark bursts, the blackened magic rids the disguises of those lurking within the castle.  Several guards, revelers, and servants all fade and warp into their true identities: Galran soldiers and Druid mages.

Michlo roars and lunges at the closest enemy to her.  Pidge gathers Matt’s parents nearby and herds them up the staircase as the chaos below them erupts at once.  The bystanders scream and panic, but the invading enemies block their exits.

Hunk mounts Kaerda and they make it their goal to barrel into the enemies to help some of the innocents escape, but the Galran numbers just seem to keep increasing, and soon their serrated blades have the Yellow Lion cornered and snarling.

Lance charges from across the room with moonbow charged and drawn, but the terrified citizens are scattering and running toward any possible means of escape from the danger.  He can’t fire without risking lives that shouldn’t be spent.  Irazu’s lithe form leaps overtop her Heart, aiming for the approaching Druid on the other side, but they cast a shadow bolt toward one of the revelers off to the side, startling Irazu into changing her course last-second to just barely deflect the blow with a burst of ice from her maw.

The combination of the blasts disperses an eerily magical dusting of blue and deep purple sparks through which Shiro charges with his blade.  At his back Rajalti roars fiercely, and her fury brings a pressure into the air and her fur darkens into nearly pitch-black shadows, making her look more like a wraith than a Lion.

All the while, Matt—helpless without a weapon—has been exercising all the discretion he can in order to back away out of the ballroom toward the nearest unblocked passage.  His mind is firing off a million thoughts with each speedy heartbeat; it’s a wonder he can even gauge his own sense of direction.

Panic leaves instinct as his compass, and he’s snuck out of this castle a thousand different ways to know which secret hall to open and help the revelers escape.  That has to be why the Druids struck here and now; they knew the Leonic Angels would never sacrifice or willingly endanger the lives of innocents, not to mention their power is limited now that they’re separated from Keith and Branoc, so the Empire will have a clear advantage in this fight so long as the soldiers keep the citizens caged in like frightened sheep.

Pidge and Michlo were smart and guided their parents to safety, so Matt takes it upon himself to help all the others.  He manages to skate out of the room undetected; he just has to unblock the nearest tunnel.

There’s one in the hall next to the ballroom, one of the oldest passages in the entire palace.  He’s so close!  Matt rounds the corner and—

_Thud!_

Matt stumbles backward onto the floor, groaning as a blinding pain smashes into his head.  Sucking in air through his teeth, he blinks and wipes away a trickle of blood from the gash over his eye just in time to see the glint of grinning yellow eyes looming over him before he’s yanked into a captive embrace, the blade of the weapon whose hilt must have struck him now a hair’s breadth from his throat.

“Come along, Your Highness,” Commander Sendak’s gruff voice gloats into Matt’s ear.  He shoves Matt along back toward the ballroom, and Matt does his best to grimace against the pain and feign bravery, but Galran senses are stronger than most, and there’s no doubt Sendak can smell the fear rolling from his pores.

 _It’s not over yet,_  Matt forces himself to think against the throbbing in his head.  _It's not over yet!_

Thinking it is one thing, of course, but once Matt takes in the sight of his parents, Pidge, Lance, and Hunk all in similar captive holds as his own, he has trouble really believing it.  In the ballroom, only moments ago a place of merriment and mirth now bordered by the captive bystanders who cower away from the threatening swarm of intruders, Matt finds Shiro too has been restrained, but on his knees in the middle of the room he is bound by dark magic taking the shape of ghastly chains.  Before him stands the witch Haggar.  Helpless, the Lions simply growl and bristle around the stillness of the combatants, unable to strike with the Hearts at risk.

Matt’s eyes tear between his family and the others, desperate to have someone do something.  Pidge makes Matt proud though, even in the midst of his fear, the way she holds her head high, knife to her exposed throat as if daring the Galran soldier to slice her.  It’s a thought that sends ice into Matt’s veins, but he admires his sister’s dignity all the same and finds himself drawing courage from her.

Equally desperate to free Pidge, Michlo takes a bold step forward with a ferocious snarl, but Irazu regretfully nudges her backward with a wing, though Irazu’s own fury could chill the sun.

“You will stand down,” states Haggar.  Not as a request or even a taunt; her mocking cruelty from their previous encounter has hardened into a tone of nothing but stern, clinical purpose.

 _What weight do your threats hold?_ Kaerda challenges, voice a little less steady than her words.   _If you kill them, you will lose Amaria._

“No,” Haggar rebukes calmly.   _“You_ will lose Amaria.  But even if you were unable to access your full power, it does not mean I couldn’t.  Besides,” she adds, turning her attention to Shiro who grimaces in his shadow-chains, “even if I were to kill all of you here, there is still one more out there I could use.”

“You’ll never have Keith,” Shiro spits, lurching against his restraints only to have his resistance shock him back into compliance with a pained cry that only further flares Matt’s own temper.  But still, Matt knows he’s at a disadvantage, so he simply stiffens in Sendak’s grasp.

Rajalti’s roar is deep in her throat with her Heart’s pain, and the air presses in all around them so much Matt starts to feel a flutter in his chest that forces him to slow his breathing.

But Haggar doesn’t flinch.

Irazu declares, _Amaria is ours and ours alone, no matter how you may try to steal or imitate it!  You will never know or claim its power._

Hunk bravely speaks up from his own captor’s grip, terror blatant in the trembling of his limbs.  “What exactly do you even want with the magic?”

Haggar assesses him with boredom and then smirks.  “Perhaps you will all live long enough to find out.  But then again,” she amends, with a pointed stare to Rajalti, “perhaps not.  You are their leader, Black Lion.  Why don’t you make the honorable choice and save your compatriots’ lives?  Your command will bind them into place, make sure they do not follow us, and you and Champion will come with us willingly.”

 _You will not have him,_ Rajalti answers slowly, venomously, rattling the windows with her growls.  _You will take nothing from me again!_

Shiro tries to soothe her anger, but the Black Lion’s threatening defiance is so palpable and impending that it’s a wonder to Matt she hasn’t yet struck the Druid and all her cohorts into the neighboring planes.

Haggar’s eyes glare from under her hood.  “Then I guess I’ll have to make due.”  She turns to Matt, and his chest hollows in dread.  She lifts a thin, crooked hand in silent command, and Sendak shoves him forward with such force Matt falls onto his hands and knees.  He lands with a jolt through his bones, and he winces.

Shiro lurches again, and the other Lionhearts squirm in their helplessness.  Matt looks up to Haggar as well as he can through the trickling wound over his eye.

“Are you afraid, Prince Matthew?” Haggar taunts.  Her upraised palm turns toward him with a thrust, and she casts a dark shadow spell from her palm.

Before Matt can even react the bolt connects with his chest in the dark stain where Velqa was bound to him, and Matt cries out in pain.  The same blackish fog so indicative of the chimaera envelops Matt now in the waking world, draining Matt of his energy.  He is helpless to fight against the magic as it works from the inside, burning his body as if being soaked by freezing acid.  His vision grows staticky and dark, all sounds drowned out by his own cries of pain and the hiss of the stifling dark veil whirling around him.  In the chaos of it all, Matt understands: Haggar is drawing Velqa into the physical world, giving the chimaera her full corporeal form at last.

Matt tries to fight how he can, tries to watch, but he is irrevocably lost to the miserable sensations within and around his entire body until—at last…

...it stops.

Matt’s chest heaves with ragged breath as he lies upon the floor, weakened and terribly aching, but he forces his eyes open and his neck to crane his vision upward to watch as the last of  the magic fades from his limbs and is sucked into a shadowy vortex whirling in the center of the room.

The black cyclone roars and crackles with scarlet lightning.  Its dark winds howl horribly as they toss around debris and pull at the hair and clothing of the mortified onlookers crowding the edges of the ballroom.  All are bound to watch and do nothing as the vortex swells to impossible size.

Soon, though, the speeds of its rotations slow until the shadows begin to unravel into outstretched tendrils that fade into a black fog so thick Matt can hardly see his own hands in front of him—a fog so thick it even muffles the sounds in the room.  All Matt can hear is the ringing in his ears and a peculiar buzzing of the atmosphere.

Then, with a sound like night winds in the trees, a clawed foot breaches the darkness to brace itself upon the marble floor.  It’s something like a lion’s foot, but the toes seem too long and the unsheathed claws are a color not unlike raw garnet.  The second foot emerges, but then the third and fourth follow to look more like deadly cloven toes of a ram.

As the fog slowly lifts, piece-by-piece the chimaera takes shape within the shadows until at last her gnarled, clawed wings unfurl, and Velqa blasts the remaining shadows away to reveal her immense, terrific form, taller even than Rajalti.

In the silence, Velqa opens her eyes slowly, squinting at first in the brightness of even this dark room as if she’s been disturbed from a long slumber.  Velqa draws her wings back to her body, her enormous horned head inclining slowly as she takes in her first sight of her new surroundings: Matt.

She blinks.

Matt blinks back.

Velqa tilts her head, long nostrils flaring and forked tongue peeking from her lips to investigate the air around her.  The people all around are afraid, gasping and muttering and praying in the room with this creature not born of this plane—all are afraid, that is, except for Matt.

He would not be able to explain his confidence in this moment as he manages to push himself onto his knees to sit up higher, leaning toward the chimaera.  There is something different about her—something new.  She appraises Matt as though she’s never seen him before, and Matt wonders if she really has.  The piercing red of her eyes that’s stained itself behind Matt’s eyelids is no longer there.  In fact, they seem rounder, softer even—more curious as she lowers her head closer to Matt.  She sniffs at his chest just over his heart before retracting her neck and tilting her head inquisitively.

Matt manages to take a deep breath, swallowing hard.  “Velqa?” he whispers, a hand reaching toward her.  He looks deep into her eyes.  “This is really you, isn’t it?”

A tattered ear flicks at Matt’s voice, eyes narrowing as if she does not understand.  And she doesn’t, Matt concludes with a chill.  Those wicked voices from the chimaera, the haunting glow of her eyes… none of that was really _Velqa._  She was a facade for Haggar’s magic, perhaps even Haggar herself; simply a means of getting into Matt’s head.   _This_ Velqa, the one standing before him, is not the one who destroyed the village of Lionstar.  She is not the one threatening to destroy the Leonic Angels.  True, she is perhaps not the most pastoral creature come to life, but she is not the frightening monstrosity meant only for death; she is a creature of her own.  And she’s only truly waking up now for the first time, a creature brought to life by fear who surely now has fears of her own.

Matt has to help her.

But the world returns to him in a violent lurch as Haggar’s voice shatters the moment between Matt and Velqa: “Remember you belong to me,” she seethes, and with another motion from her palm, Matt sees the wicked red light return to Velqa’s eyes as she rears her head with fanged jaws roaring wide.

Startled, Matt collapses backward and watches in horror as he sees a magic leash of shadows chains flash around her neck before disappearing—and with them, the witch Haggar.

Velqa’s eyes look to Matt once more, but this is the familiar stare now, and it’s clear to Matt that her own mind has been stolen from her.  He holds his breath, bracing for the attack—

But Rajalti doesn’t let it happen—she unleashes a roar of her own and surges forward with powerful muscles to barrel into the chimaera.

“No!” Matt cries.  “Don’t hurt her!”  But his cries are lost to the revived chaos as the Black Lion and chimaera brawl with opposing teeth and claws, a blur of darkness and her shadow.

Shiro, apparently freed with Haggar disappearing, runs over to help Matt to his feet.  The sudden battle between Rajalti and Velqa was enough distraction for the Lionhearts to free themselves of their own restraints and reach their Lions, all turning to face the Galran and Druid attackers.

 _Go!_ cries Rajalti before bunching her powerful muscles and leaping forward into a thunderous takeoff.  She lures Velqa into the air, and the two soar through the open air ceiling and into the night sky.

Sam and Colleen have expertly maneuvered their way out of the Galran’s grasp as well, and their impressive swordsmanship is thoroughly employed as they fend off the attackers back to back.

Matt’s helpless with no weapon at his side, but Shiro again readies his own to stave back Sendak who moves to strike from behind.

Lance’s moonbow is put to use while Pidge and Hunk, both also unarmed, are herded behind their Lions as Irazu, Michlo, and Kaerda face off the surrounding Druids.

Matt’s gut drops low as he frantically takes in all the scenes around him: the flashing silhouettes of Rajalti and Velqa dueling in the air, his parents both moving to free the captive onlookers while Lance does his best to watch their backs, the Lions’ magic striking at that of the Druids.  It’s a chaotic fight, and while the numbers seem fairly matched, Matt knows the Empire’s soldiers have the advantage because they’re not only prepared and they’re bloodthirsty; the Lions are just trying to keep everyone else safe.

“You too, son!”  Sam’s voice is suddenly at Matt’s ear.  He whirls around toward his father’s features flushed from panic and exertion.  “You’ve all got to get out of here, now!”

Before Matt can protest, there is a crackle from the air, and everyone shrieks as Rajalti comes crashing through the ceiling with Velqa diving just after her.  Shaking off her stun swiftly, Rajali rolls just free from Velqa’s crushing talons, but the chimaera’s tail is long as her body and lashes like a whip at Rajalti strong enough to strike a gash right over her eyes.

Rajalti roars in pain, flinching and momentarily blinded, and Velqa gains the upper hand.  Her sabred fangs glint and Shiro cries out to her warning.  Rajalti must hear her Heart’s call, for even with eyes compromised she tumbles out of the chimaera’s grasp.

 _Flee, my cub!_  She orders her own teeth and claws slashing fiercely against Velqa’s flank.  _This is my fight._

“Rajalti—” Shiro tries to argue, but his diverted attention nearly allows Sendak to strike him down.  Matt reacts on instinct and moves to shove Shiro out of the way.  They both fall onto the floor, barely evading the swipe of Sendak’s blade before Colleen matches the strike with her own just above Matt’s head.

“Take the pride and go,” his mother seethes with a fierceness Matt’s never seen, but it easily matches that of the Lions fighting for their Hearts in this disadvantageous battle.

There is a wash of cold air as Matt and Shiro scramble to their feet just as Irazu stands over them, blue eyes scanning fast.  Cool under pressure, even the Blue Lion cannot find a way to win like this.

“We have to get out of here!” Lance cries from atop her back.

“I second that!” says Hunk running over with Pidge at his side.

Matt’s sister is far less eager to submit.  “We can’t just abandon them!” she argues in spite of Rover cowering within her dress.  Behind her, Michlo lashes her tail to swipe away a soldier who slipped by Kaerda’s defensive strikes on the opposite side of their cluster.

Matt looks back to the fight between Velqa and Rajalti.  The Black Lion has managed to open her eyes just enough to look to Shiro as the chimaera charges her horns into Rajalti so hard she is knocked from her feet.  Velqa leaps and her front claws find their hold and her momentum sends both she and Rajalti rolling until Velqa has Rajalti pinned beneath her.  The Black Lion squirms, but she is weakened and Velqa is freshly alive, larger and stronger, and saliva drips from her panting mouth just over Rajalti’s head.

“Rajalti, no!” Shiro cries, but Hunk pulls him back into the group.

Matt glances around to see the remainder of the army has turned their focus to his group.  His parents valiantly stave off the few they can, but even with their admirable skills, they are clearly outnumbered, and the army will do whatever they must to get at the Leonic Angels once and for all.

Rajalti roars, but her orders are limited only to the minds of the Leonic Angels.  Whatever her words, they don’t move to help the Black Lion; they only close in backward with their Hearts at the center of the circle, Shiro staring in horror after Rajalti who writhes just free of Velqa and the soldiers’ grasp.  She manages to leap into the air, her wings sparking with life with static all through the feathers, building in strength and brilliance so much that Velqa stills her assault just long enough for Rajalti to cast out a violet blast.

The air rumbles with thunder, growing louder and louder as Rajalti’s magic takes form overhead Matt and the others.  It all happens in a split second; the last thing Matt sees before Rajalti’s power strikes them blind is the sight of Velqa’s overpowering jaws pulling Rajalti back down from the air, and then the Black Lion is lost underneath a swarm of Galran soldiers.


	4. Absence

When Matt opens his eyes, it takes him a minute to adjust to the darkness.  It’s cold, he notices first.  His head still swims even when his ears stop ringing, but he manages to find enough strength to hold himself upright after being lifted from the ground by the loose cloth at his back, albeit steadying himself against Michlo for a second.  Her green eyes blink wearily at him.

Like punch do events return to Matt, but right now it’s as if everything is underwater, his movements sluggish and everything else seeming to move slower in the darkness of this overcast night.

“Pidge?” he calls out.  Rover’s markings act as a torch as his sister appears and grabs Matt’s arm.  This offers at least a little bit of relief.

Next Matt hears Shiro’s voice asking if everyone is alright, and he’s met with responding groans and sighs from the other Lions and Lionhearts.  Everyone is here; everyone but Rajalti, and wherever _here_ is.

“Rajalti?” Shiro experimentally asks.  But the Black Lion does not answer, and everyone is palpably tense, a buzzing of unspoken morosity threading between them all.

Matt reaches for Velqa’s mark over his heart, but there is no response from the chimaera either.  Matt could not have expected such an empty sensation.

“Over there!” says Hunk, his arm barely visible as it gestures to a soft light coming from the crest of a hill behind them all.

“We’re just outside Beezer’s,” Lance realizes.  Matt remembers the name of the tavern where the Lionhearts first met with Lotor, a place Lance has known well.  In the darkness, the Blue Heart hugs himself, but by his features Matt assumes it’s more from nerves than the cold.  “But how did we…?”

 _Rajalti,_ Kaerda answers him sadly.   _She cast us to safety.  This must be as far as her power could reach._

Not one to lose her temper, Irazu’s angry voice is brittle with fear.   _Stupid!  She has only just succeeded at carrying passengers in her transports, and now she risks sending away so many of us so far?  It must have cost all her strength, and she would have known it would do as much!_

 _Shut up, Irazu!_ Michlo snaps with a glance to Shiro who looks too lost to have even heard a word.  Matt’s heart weakens at the sight of such vacancy from him.   _Do you not think we would know if something had happened to her?  We would feel it if she were hurt.  Rajalti is the strongest of us, the wisest.  She knew what she was doing!_  Michlo’s breath comes in frantic puffs with her own fear.  Pidge presses herself against the Green Lion to help calm her.

Irazu snorts. _You have always given her too much credit; Rajalti overestimates herself.  She pushes herself to damaging points, and look what it has done again and again to all of us!_

“Come on, Zuzu,” Lance soothes, stepping in between her and Michlo.  Irazu huffs as if about to argue further, but she holds her tongue and tosses her head to the side dismissively.

 _We would know if she was hurt, right, Kaerda?_ Michlo ventures, voice much smaller now.

The Yellow Lion shakes her head helplessly.   _Perhaps.  But it is hard to be certain.  We have never lost a Lion before.  Only a Lionheart._

 _Which hurt us enough!_ pushes Michlo as if desperate to justify her own hopes and banish her fears.   _So if something were to happen to one of us, there is no way it would be undetected!_

No one debates the matter further, but it’s clear the loss of Rajalti—permanent or not—has left the pride quite compromised.  Matt meets Shiro’s eyes, an ocean of fear and sorrow visible even in this dim light as he takes first takes a tentative step, then his pace finds more purpose as he moves toward the tavern over the hill.  “We won’t solve anything out here.  Let’s go,” he says without force.

Everyone follows in tow, exhausted and weighed down.  Matt walks next to Pidge who lifts her downcast eyes to ask Matt the same question he’s had plaguing his own thoughts: “What about Mom and Dad?”

Her voice is a tight whisper, near breaking.  Matt’s optimism hesitates because he remembers the number of enemies in that ballroom, but the look on his sister’s face encourages him to remain hopeful enough for them both.  “You know Mom and Dad; _they_ taught _us_ how to be survivors.  If anyone can handle a scene like that, it’s them.”

Pidge nods, but her gaze falls distant once more, and Matt fears he’s failed to convince her.  Michlo offers a comforting nuzzle to her Heart as they cross the darkened path of the moor and reach the shoddy establishment that is Beezer’s Tavern.

 

* * *

 

Lance didn’t oversell the tavern’s hospitality; the Lions were granted permission to huddle in the stables for the night—much to the chagrin of the few horses lodged inside—and Rolo and Nyma even provided spare clothes for everyone to change into from their formal wear.  Only two rooms were left for the night though, so everyone came to the agreement that Pidge, Lance, and Hunk would share the bigger one while Matt and Shiro shared the other.

They ate what they could with their spoiled appetites, and during the meal Shiro decided to send Lance and Irazu alone to Altea to retrieve Allura.  In the meantime, Kaerda and Michlo will work to reach Branoc and Keith.  Shiro must admit to a pang of guilt at imposing upon Keith’s important personal quest, but of course he needs to be informed, and at least he can update Lotor as well, wherever they are.  Once word has been received from them and Allura has arrived, the next steps can be decided.  No one feels much more at ease even with these decisions made, but it’s all that can be done for now.

Shiro bids Pidge, Hunk, and Lance goodnight before heading to his and Matt’s room where Matt’s gone to change and tend to his wounds from the fight.  Fatigue and anxiety duel for control of Shiro’s limbs—he could either sprint a mile or collapse on the spot.  He gently raps his knuckles upon the door.  “You decent?”

There is a rustling behind the door before Matt opens it with a tired smile, Rolo’s loaned clothes looking a solid size too big on him.  “You’re too modest,” he says softly, letting Shiro inside.  Closing the door, Matt leans against it and asks, “Lance leaves at dawn then?”

He’s trying to be casual, light, as if Shiro can’t tell he’s been deeply shaken by tonight’s events.  He’s a lot like Shiro in that way—trying to be strong for everyone else, even if it’s to his own detriment.

Shiro nods to answer his question, then finds Matt’s eyes in the dimly lit room.  Voice low, he asks, “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” Matt says too quickly.  He then swallows hard and sighs as if accepting the futility of feigning indifference.  “I’m worried about Mom and Dad,” he confesses.  “What I told Katie, it was true, but… That was a _lot_ of soldiers.  And Velqa…”  He takes a breath, eyes searching as he recollects.  “That wasn’t her.  She’s not that monster.  I could see she was… She’s innocent.  Haggar created her just to control her.”

He looks back to Shiro again, uncertain.  “But Haggar created Velqa from the magic she managed to drain from Rajalti all that time ago, so Velqa is part of her in a way, you know?  So I think Rajalti knows Velqa isn’t really the enemy.  I wonder if that’s why she stayed.  I think she let herself be captured—maybe to help her...  I don’t know,” he dismisses himself, frustrated and drained.

Matt runs his hands over his face, stepping closer to Shiro, eyes dark with concern.  “What about _you?”_

It’s no mystery nor surprise that Rajalti’s capture has struck Shiro to his core, but it’s only now when faced with the question directly does it occur to him the pain of her disappearance—and that’s all it can be described as: a disappearance.  Shiro can’t reach out to her, he can’t feel her anywhere, and the vacancy of it leaves him feeling cold and lost and helpless as if losing a limb or an organ.

Matt’s thoughts about Rajalti staying on purpose are what frustrate Shiro; she _could_ have fled with them.  But she chose self-sacrifice.  Regardless of whether or not it was to help Velqa or destroy her, the action also gave the others more time to escape and at last begin their journey to Oriande for the answers that will help them defeat the Empire once and for all.  But what can be done without Rajalti?

Michlo did have a point: if Rajalti were dead or hurt, surely one of them would have an inkling, right?  Especially Shiro.  But it’s nothing like that; it’s as if she’s simply been hidden from them.  But hidden where?  And how?  Has Haggar’s magic has really grown so powerful that she can conceal the Black Lion from her own pride?  It’s an intimidating thought.

Shiro is loath to consider what might be done to Rajalti in the meantime.  She’s already been Haggar’s prisoner more than once, and has escaped worse for wear each time.  And just like the previous times, there’s nothing Shiro can do to help her.

These thoughts and a thousand more race through Shiro’s mind, but aloud they go unspoken.  All the same they must be painted across his every feature, as Matt moves closer to pull him into an embrace.  Head on his chest, Matt whispers, “We’ll find her, Shiro.  We’ll find them all and make things right.”

Shiro wraps his arms around Matt in turn, holding him tight to try and soothe both their troubles for now.  Nothing else can be done tonight save for this embrace, so they both indulge in the closeness and comfort of it, the gratitude of having each other’s presence.

They hold each other so close for so long their hearts and breaths begin to move as one.  Even in the midst of all the fear and worry, there is a safety here in this moment.  There is a clarity.  Shiro buries a kiss in Matt’s hair, his hands lighting anew as they cup Matt’s face.  Shiro takes in the scrapes and bruises from none other than Sendak, and it lights something _inside_ of him too.  Something less tender.  

He brings his forehead to Matt’s and treasures the sense of him, his warmth under Shiro’s hands and his essence now embedded as part of Shiro’s own soul that beats in his blood with each vein of magic.  Shiro has spent many days afraid of something like this, these feelings for someone like Matt.  For with every dive into tender unknowns there is the chance to be shattered.  Shiro thinks of his mother and his father’s death.  He thinks of Keith’s departure, of Rajalti’s capture.  Each of these things have wounded Shiro in different ways and could justify his fears, but for the first time, he decides to use this fear, much like Allura said in Lionstar, to fuel his purpose.  He’ll hold nothing back for Matt and all the others; he’ll hold nothing back from his enemies.  Because he can’t do it again.  He can’t lose anyone else.

Such conviction blazes in Shiro’s chest that he has to take a deep breath around it.  Sensing something shift, Matt’s own cold fingers wrap around Shiro’s and lace them in the most familiar way.  Foreheads still together, Shiro closes his eyes, lost in the feelings and the moment, lost in his purpose.

“Shiro.”  Matt’s exhale is so urgent that it startles Shiro, and he jerks backward, hands gripping Matt’s tighter in concern, but he only grows confused as he takes in the sight before him.

The violet light, now glowing brightest in a patch over Shiro’s chest, beats in time with his steady heart.  He and Matt watch, still and bewildered, as the tendrils glide and glimmer and grow all the way from Shiro’s chest to the dimmer violet flecks where Matt’s fingers rest atop his own.  Then the light spreads further, jumping onto Matt’s hands where it glows brighter, but the colors pales to a white-gold as it flushes and blooms into more of a veil just above the skin than tendrils within—as if Shiro’s chest is the roots, his violet light the branches, and the light surrounding Matt is the foliage.

Their eyes meet, and Shiro gasps as he watches the bruises and scrapes on Matt’s face fade, growing lighter and smoother under the pale, encompassing halo until the wounds have all healed completely.  Only then does the light from both of them fizzle out, and they exhale at the same time as if having been submerged.

Matt’s face splits into a smile as he touches where all the injuries had just been.  “Did you just…?”  He laughs, then whispers as if he needs to say it to seek confirmation, “You can heal.”

Shiro can barely process, his own fingers and eyes absently trailing the same paths as Matt.  Even the residue from the healing salve has gone away from Matt’s skin.

Slowly at first, vaguely, but then with vivaciousness does Shiro replay his memories: the day they’d kissed in the hollow when he’d calmed Matt’s heart… The day he bonded with Rajalti and her injured wing recovered enough for them to escape…

He remembers Rajalti’s explanation of Amaria, how very rarely it may grant a wish held in the depths of a pure soul.  Shiro’s wish, he now realizes, has always been to keep people safe from harm.  He’s wanted so much not to hurt anyone that Amaria has granted him this gift.  “I can heal,” he echoes, voice hardly a whisper.

It doesn’t make sense—or maybe it does, but Shiro just can’t seem to grasp it yet in its entirety.  It’s as if this is happening to someone else, or to some other version of himself in a dream.  Shiro examines his palm as if expecting to find some sort of trick or proof to whatever has just occured.  Has this power really been here since he bonded with Rajalti?  Is it will alone that activates it?  If so, why doesn’t it just work to prevent harm in the first place?

These questions and more flood Shiro’s mind, and the weariness in his limbs at once becomes more acute as the lingering rush of magic fades at last.  His eyelids grow heavy, vision blurring, and he nearly pitches forward, but Matt steadies him.  “Okay,” he’s hushing into Shiro’s hair, equally wondered and perplexed.

Shiro reorients himself against the light-headedness, the trembling in his limbs unfamiliar.  He tries only once to form a sentence, but his head is so spacey he doesn’t remember what he was saying or if he even said it aloud.  In the space of a blink he’s lying against the bed, Matt’s arms around him with one hand stroking Shiro’s hair soothingly.  “Just get some rest,” he hears Matt whisper just before falling into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

 


	5. Rise and Fall

_Thud._

That would have been the third time Keith was quite vehemently rejected by Zethrid’s supposedly “beginner-friendly, easy-going” stallion.

After the events at Lionstar, it took about a day and a half to reach Zethrid and Ezor’s ranch where they rescue and raise horses from all around Arus, a discreet life they live when not called to duty by Lotor.  At first Keith had to admit he found it strange such imposing women were capable of this level of nurture and affection for both their wards and each other, but it didn’t take long for him to adjust to the sight of it.

Though one drawback was their laughing fits at Keith’s failure to master horseback riding despite his best efforts.

Branoc, watching from the shade of one of the well-built stables, remarked once with distaste, _It is a shame we cannot simply eat them for their disobedience_ —a remark to which Ezor did not take kindly, but Branoc showed no remorse for considering it as a perfectly legitimate option.

It was the morning after their arrival at the tucked away farmlands that Keith approached the black horse with renewed spirits, sourced simply from his desire to just _get going._ He’d been anxious for both the journey, the potential to find his mother—and the horses themselves didn’t put him at much ease.

“Come on, boy,” Keith urged with quiet desperation atop the black horse’s saddle.  The steed, yet unnamed, tossed his head, spiteful of Keith’s uncoordinated jerking of the reins, defiantly stamping his hoofs in place.

“Don’t strain his neck,” Lotor called, trotting his white steed with comfortable ease over to Keith’s side.  At least the prince had made the efforts to be of some _actual_ help in teaching Keith.  “Relax your grip and trust him, but don’t let him think he’s in charge.”

Lotor’s gentle voice put Keith’s horse at some ease, and Keith would be lying to say he wasn’t annoyed at how he seemed to be the only one his horse _didn’t_ have any respect for.  Lotor patted the white-blazed nose and offered a bit of oatcake before spinning his own horse about to give Keith more space.

“Try again, now.  Remember: move _with_ him.”

Disgruntled, Keith sighed but swallowed a biting remark, trying to maintain an amiable demeanor for the horse to sense.  Keith straightened his spine in the saddle and spurred his heels into the stallion’s flanks.

He didn’t budge; he just chewed absently at his bit with a slight toss of his mane.

Zethrid called from the fencing, “Youngin’s can be so temperamental, eh?”

Ezor titterred at her partner’s side and elbowed Narti, the general who did not speak but saw all through the eyes of her spirit companion, Kova the cat, who stared impassively from atop a fence post.  Narti had a strange air about her, Keith had absently noted, but maybe that was just his own misplaced perceptions.

Tired of embarrassing himself, Keith commanded the horse once again, and, once again, his only movement was pawing at the ground.

“Come on!” Keith hissed, driving his heels into the black horse’s flanks once again.  He was at last spurred into action, and Keith felt his heart soar and plunge in the same beat as he merely began to wander about the fencing with intentional aimlessness, spinning about and making jerky steps as if encouraging Keith to dismount.

Keith had been impatient, frustrated, and stinking of horse shit from falling off once already.  He yanked the reins, and the black stallion whinnied in defiance, rearing with such power that even Keith’s gloves couldn’t help him keep his grip.

He toppled to the muddy ground with a thud and a winded grown.  Damp earth soaked through his vest, and he turned his head to see the horse trotting away with a snort.  Keith sighed.  The fourth time.

Ignoring the continued laughter from the generals, Keith closed his eyes in exasperation, thinking he might just continue to lie here a while.  Take some time to think about things.  Things like, _I am not good at horseback riding._

Lotor’s gentle yet insistent command punctuated his own horse’s approach.  “Again.”

“Why?  It’s pointless,” Keith said.  “Why can’t we just double up on the saddle and get going?”

“You both need a bit of breaking it seems,” Lotor mused.  With a shrug, he added, “At least he’s not a boar; we’d be here for months—if you ever survived at all.”

“At least boars aren’t scared of me.”  Keith scoffed, defeated.  He glanced to the horse’s face.  “Look at him; he’s terrified.”

“Only because you’re terrified of _him.”_

Frustration tensed in Keith’s jaw upon hearing the amused lilt in Lotor’s voice.  “I’m glad this is funny to all of you.”

The urge to storm off had been gripping Keith’s limbs those few days, and he likely would have been gone by then had Lotor not been so patient a teacher, General Acxa—the only one who did _not_ find amusement in the horse’s antics—been a sympathetic if quiet friend, and Branoc not so relentlessly encouraging and full of faith in him.  His Lion had huffed a smoky snort, and the others all quieted their giggles.

Keith felt bitter; another rotten attempt at trying to be something he’s not.  “Why should I have expected any different?” he sighed.

Keith braced for some sort of rebuke from Lotor, some further admonishment for his failed, clumsy attempts and sour attitude, but the prince merely dismounted his horse and offered a hand to lift Keith back to his feet.  Keith noted _his_ horse didn’t even need tethered to stay put.  

He accepted Lotor’s offer, brushing his pants best he could before chancing a look upward to see Lotor’s expression set in stern contemplation.  There was sympathy in that angled golden stare of his as he stroked the black horse’s neck.  He came to some inward conclusion and summoned Zethrid to take the stallion from him and return him to the stables.

Lotor tilted his head curiously, but his eyes softened with understanding of what Keith left unspoken.  “Is that what you think?  Your Galran blood is always to blame?”

Embarrassed, Keith’s gaze fell to the blisters on his fingers where the gloves didn’t protect them from the rough leather reins.  To start, he wasn’t even sure _why_ he was embarrassed; it’s likely because whenever he’d sought to blame his race for his problems before, no one had ever disagreed—being Galran is an inherent curse, right?  An automatic “evil” status?  His whole life he’d been told to hide or die because he was doomed to the paths of his evil ancestors.  But here was Lotor and his four generals, all part-Galran themselves, and _their_ horses respond to them just fine.  Zethrid and Ezor _raise_ them, even, many from foals and many from abuse to teach them to love and trust and learn from people who are willing to do the same for the horses in turn.

Such a simple revelation it was to be sure, but nonetheless one that had evaded Keith most of his life.  And at once, quite simply, he felt like an ass.

Keith flushed from head to toe with the heat of a dense conglomeration of emotions too mingled to fully identify, but Keith was loath to find it burning his eyes with the threat of long-held-back tears.  He fought them angrily, head to the side, until he could manage to lift his eyes to meet Lotor’s once again.

Lotor penetrated Keith’s gaze with a compassion that only further weakened Keith’s guard.  He rested a warm hand on Keith’s shoulder and, as if invading Keith’s mind and understanding his exact thoughts—likely thoughts Lotor has had himself—Lotor spoke softly but firmly, “We are not what they tried to make us.”

 

* * *

 

 

The following day Keith had felt encouraged, though he might not have admitted it, and the change in his attitude was not unnoticed by the stallion.  He allowed him to ride with gradual ease, even if they were both still tense at first.  Before long, Keith was really getting the hang of it, and even began to feel the beginnings of a bond with this horse.

Entertainment shifting to pleasure at Keith’s development, Ezor had said at dinner that night, “You know, we’d been stuck on a name for the little guy, but after seeing you guys growing together, me and Z decided _you_ should be the one to name him.”

Keith wasn’t sure why this was such a moving offer to him, but he took some time to think about it, and the next morning at dawn reached the stall of his newly gifted horse.  “Kosmo,” he’d decided, stroking the white on the horse’s nose that looks just like the stars on the clearest and darkest of nights.

The stallion snorted and nuzzled Keith’s palm.  “Sound good, boy?” Keith laughed.

“I like it,” Acxa said, startling Keith from the stable doors with a quiet approach, readying the other steeds to at last set out on the quest to speak with the Blade of Marmora.

Narti, through Kova’s eyes, had received some intel that a smaller faction of the rebel group was boldly located about thirty leagues within the nearest reach of the Empire’s border, somewhere in the marshlands.  The destination would have, in theory, taken no longer than two or three days, but unfortunately Narti’s sources provided her with no further detail, so they weren’t sure what they’d be looking for upon arriving—and it’s not exactly like they could have asked directions to the shady rebellion from the people who reside within the borders of the very Empire against which the organization is rebelling.

Still, it did not sway Lotor’s confidence as they embarked nonetheless.  Even Keith found himself feeling optimistic.  His change in demeanor was not only noted by his horse, but Branoc as well, of course.  And it was an unwelcome shift for the Red Lion, her own mood lifting in turn despite being so far from her family.  She was pleased enough to know her Heart was on a quest to find his own family, and too gaining one in these companions who understand the side of him he’s had to hide and shame his whole life, helping him learn to accept more of himself even in such the short time as they’d been travelling.  Keith couldn’t deny a bit of amusement in noting her seething regard for the Galran prince to soften little by little.

The warmth of Keith and Branoc’s bond expanded the distance they had to spend apart during the day, and at night it kept the cold far away as they rest.  Though Keith, Lotor, and the others stared into the maw of the dangerous unknown away from their friends, Keith for once had a sincere sense of hope.

But, perhaps, nothing good really _is_ meant to last.

Upon the night of the autumnal equinox, the troupe set up camp outside the marshland—not a place anyone was eager to trek at all, let alone at night.  A wispy veil of cloud kept the moon modest as Keith failed to settle into his bedroll to rest.

He felt antsy, but he blamed it solely upon the imminence of his journey’s next crucial steps.  Perhaps he was ignoring the growing distress emanating from Branoc on their way here, as if she were inclined to some warning or omen he and the others were not.

But now, Keith can ignore it no longer when Branoc lands some ways away from the camp and races on foot to Keith’s side.  Her muscles are tense; her frantic gaze searches for a threat that cannot be seen.  Gravely, she says, _Something is very wrong._

Keith’s heart sinks both from deepened fear and guilt at having been so naive as to assume for once all might possibly be well.   _What is it?_ he asks through their bond so as not to disturb the others from their sleep.

Branoc snorts, frustrated.   _I am uncertain.  I must be too far to hear my sisters, but not so far that I cannot sense their distress.  They are… saddened.  Even burdened._  Her claws anxiously scrape the earth.   _I am worried, my Heart.  I think something terrible has happened._

It pains her to admit this fear, Keith is sure, Branoc being both too proud to show weakness and also too dedicated to her Heart’s happiness to feel comfortable suggesting they leave this mission that’s so important to that happiness.  

But Keith would be wrong to say that he doesn’t feel that similar pull backward to the rest of the pride upon instinct.  But too he can’t forget they’re right here, at the doorstep of the Blade of Marmora; maybe Keith’s own mother of whom he hasn’t stopped wondering since she left all those years ago.  All the questions he has for her, all the answers he’ll have for her own questions…

He looks to Lotor and the others as they asleep upon their bedrolls.  Why does he have to pick one family over another?  Keith feels as if he’s splitting in two—wishes he actually _could,_  in fact, just so that he wouldn’t have to make this decision.

Branoc does not press him one way or another, and Keith even considers telling her to turn back on her own; but the thought of being apart from his Lion as well is simply too much to bear.  She’s what he has _now,_ and his mother, no matter what he wants to know, exists to him only in his past.  Keith isn’t even sure if she’s still alive; and if she is, he doesn’t remember as much as he would like.  But the Lions, Allura and Lance, Shiro… _They’re_ his family now, and Keith can’t forsake their present and their future for his past.

Keith rises to his feet and tosses a regretful look over his shoulder at the others.  These may be his people, but his true family is the pride, and they need him now.

He carefully walks over to Kosmo and pulls a loose piece of paper and a stubby pencil buried in the bottom of his saddle bag to scrawl a short letter to leave by Lotor’s head for him to read upon waking.  Patting the horse on the nose and thanking him for his belated partnership, Keith returns to Branoc’s side and climbs upon her back.

“Keith?”

Branoc and Keith jolt despite the groggy voice barely rising above a whisper at their side.  Keith meets Acxa’s eyes as she props herself up, inquisitive as she sheds sleep further to assess the situation.

Keith’s chest tightens.  Acxa is the one he’s grown closest to aside from Lotor, and he finds he can’t take the words from the note to his lips in any elegant way.  “I… I’ve gotta go back, Acxa.  Tell Lotor I’m sorry.  And, if you do find my mom…”

All he wants to say to Krolia he seems to forget, or at the very least, it’s impossible to condense for a relayed message from a third party.

So instead of trying, Keith just sighs and straightens his shoulders.  “It’s only goodbye for now,” he echoes Shiro with a regretful glance to Lotor’s sleeping form and Kosmo whose ears swivel in displeasure.

His few words seem enough for Acxa.  Her gaze softens in understanding, and she responds with a simple nod in place of her own vocabulary.

And then Keith and Branoc take to the night sky, back toward where, maybe, they should have stayed this entire time.

 

* * *

 

 _I am not a pack mule,_ Irazu huffs as Lance fastens Allura’s second makeshift saddlebag to her back.

“We need these things, Zuzu.  It’ll be a long journey, and the rest of us didn’t exactly have time to pack.  Don’t worry, we’ll make it even once we meet up with the others.”

“You’re sure about the rendezvous?” Allura asks once more as she emerges from the stables after bidding Lenora farewell.

Lance nods, stifling a sigh.  He’s already exhausted.  The flight back to the castle took nearly two days, and it’ll be no sooner than nightfall when they all rejoin.  Irazu offers a gentle nudge of condolence, and Lance kisses her nose.

From one of her many pockets, Allura retrieves the magic mapstone that is to guide them to Oriande.  She doesn’t activate it, but still she scrutinizes its pockmarked surface as if deciphering its codes.  She closes her fingers around it, bringing it to her chest in silent prayer before turning to Coran and Romelle who stand both anxious and resolute at their Queen’s side.

This is a day that’s been long-coming, yet it’s been so often delayed that now, upon the real start of this pivotal quest, it’s hard for everyone to really believe it.  Allura and her two closest hands are silent in the gravity of the moment, no words quite fitting enough for the occasion.  So instead, the Queen embraces each of them in turn, then struggles to let go of their hands and so pulls them both in for a group hug.

At last they release each other, and Allura straightens her posture.  Lance notes with an inward smile that she’s finally getting the hang of the “Queenly presence” thing.

“Altea could not be left in better hands,” she tells her friends.

“Except for yours,” Romelle says, tears sparkling in her eyes.

Allura bows her head and takes a deep breath.  “When I return, it will be a better place for all.”  She speaks low, almost inwardly, as if needing to assure herself more than the others.

Coran wipes discreetly at his dampened mustache.  Simply and softly he bids, “Be safe, love.”

With one final farewell, Allura climbs behind Lance atop Irazu and wraps her arms around his waist to secure herself as the Blue Lion shuffles her wings, dipping her head too in farewell before turning to leap forward into the air with the grace of a springtime stream.

Lance admits he’s lacking in any sense of wonder as his Lion carries himself and Allura back the way they came, a route along the coast, inland enough to remain fairly concealed yet close enough to still catch a taste of salt upon the air.

“You could really sense the Druids?” Allura is asking Irazu as she and Lance finish supplying the details of all that happened at the Remembrance Festival while Allura was at her own castle occupied with her own responsibilities.

 _Rajalti’s connections to Velqa must have alerted her.  The rest of us could feel nothing that she described, but of course we trusted her and followed._  Recalling the ball’s events, Lance feels Irazu’s spirits falter.  It pains him to know how worried she is, even more so since she does such a spectacular job of concealing it from others.  Wryly he considers his habits are hardly different when it comes to caring for those closest to him, his worries coming off more aggressively than is true.  He hopes the others can reach Keith if Irazu can’t—he also knows she hasn’t stopped trying.

At the very least, the winds on the return journey are in Irazu’s favor, allowing her to spend much time gliding at an even pace to help conserve what remains of her energy.  There is a lull in conversation, and Lance nearly finds himself dozing off until a sudden shift in his Lion’s demeanor brings him back to focus.  Irazu’s ears are perked.

 _Branoc…!_ she sighs with relief just before Lance’s own less-acute perception of the Red Angels’ auras creeps into his awareness.

“Thank the gods,” he says.  In her excitement, Irazu begins to pick up her pace and breaches the treetops to better scout the craggy, rugged coastline.

Lance finds himself grinning as well, not even sure if this level of excitement is entirely appropriate; of course he’s relieved Keith is safe, but he shouldn’t be feeling _this_ happy.  It’s not like he was gone _that_ long.

“You really missed him, didn’t you?” Allura teases from behind, and Lance tenses to dismiss his grin at once.

 _Whatever._  He’s just in the mood for any good news at all.

Soon enough, a red speck appears in the distance before them across the gap of a barren, rocky plateau and toward the rippling brown treeline of the opposing wood.  But as the Reds come into view, the excitement vanishes rather than increases.  Lance’s heart drops the same moment Irazu’s voice darkens and she propels herself forward even harder: _They are being followed!_

 

* * *

 

The heat of Branoc’s rage threatens to sear through Keith’s gloves as he clutches his Lion tight to keep from slipping as she dips and flits just in time to avoid a Druid’s shadow bolt.

Behind him, much closer than Keith would like, illusory magic fades to reveal a group of ten Galran soldiers and mages rising ominously above the treetops upon their flying mounts, membranous wings flapping inelegantly, yellow eyes darting about and toothed beaks snapping despite being out of range of Keith and Branoc.

 _I knew we could not trust the heir of a tyrant!_ Branoc hisses as she risks a quick turn to slash fiery claws at the closest assailant.  She misses, but her quick reflexes give her enough time to gain more distance.

“No…” Keith breathes too quietly to be heard by even himself, disbelieving even as he draws his dual blades should their pursuers come close enough to feel them.  “No, Lotor wouldn’t do this!”

But there’s no time to consider who would.  The smallest of the screeching Galran mounts darts too close to Branoc’s side.  Keith blinks down the menacing length of an armed crowbow bolt and into the wielding soldier’s eyes.  Keith has no time to react—

But Irazu does.  In a flash of blue light, the soldier’s final cry of surprise and pain is frozen onto his face as his frost-laden body shatters into snowy dust upon the wind.  Frightened but freed, the soldier’s winged mount takes off in the opposite direction of Branoc as she peels off and away out of the remaining enemies’ path.

Keith locks eyes with Lance as he and Queen Allura ride with battle faces atop Irazu.  Keith is filled with equal parts relief at seeing the help arrive and fear that they too are now in danger.  Both feelings though fill him with renewed vigor, and he finds strong legs to stay upright as Branoc dives to Irazu’s side in the air.

A glowing bolt whizzes past Keith’s ear to pierce dead-through an oncoming enemy bolt.  Lance bellows a self-congratulatory hoot and an assuring nod to Keith as they then zoom in opposing directions.

In silent syncopation, Branoc and Irazu coordinate their flights.  Red and Blue flank the enemy soldiers, and Branoc casts a fireball in time with Irazu’s icy blast in the air just above the small army.  The attacks collide and explode into a cloud of steam frothing so thickly it muffles sound.

Red and Blue pivot midair, erratic movements intending to confuse any enemies who may still have some sort of eyeline of the Lions.  They outrace the spreading clutches of the cloud until they’re high above the very seam of where lashing ocean meets snagging rock.  Keith tries not to look down—he can at least take on the Empire’s combatant without hesitation, but the ocean is an entirely different matter.

“What happened?” Allura cries helplessly to Keith in this second they’ve got to breathe.  She doesn’t want to believe Lotor is behind this ambush either.

Just as helpless, Keith shakes his head, watching the disorient of steam dissipate ever so slowly, his own thoughts feeling just as clouded.  Branoc snorts as the enemies’ silhouettes become faintly clearer through the fog, and she peels off to the side and bursts forward before Keith has a chance to respond to Allura.  He’s fine with this—the only hurt he should be focusing on right now is the hurt he’ll put on these soldiers.

Another fiery pelting comes from Branoc to attack from underneath.  Irazu sends forth one of her piercing sound bursts.  There’s cries of injury from the soldiers, and a responding beam of dark magic that grazes Branoc’s shoulder.  She snarls, but seems otherwise unfazed, simply inclining her flight.

Unfortunately, the enemies’ numbers start to prove their worth.  The winged mounts form a circle within the cloud and flap to disperse what remains of it while also forming a defensive ring around who must be the leader of this group, a Druid hovering on the largest reptilian mount, the mage’s clawed hands readying another strike.

Far opposite Branoc, Irazu lifts Lance into the sky enough so that his moonbow is level with the back of the Druid’s hooded head.  Intending to keep the mage’s focus despite the warning shrieks from the underlings, Branoc carefully maneuvers ever so slightly backward, her own fire attacks building deep within until—

“Keith, look out!”

Allura’s panicked cry whips Keith’s head over his shoulder to come face to hideous face with the very same Druid he’d just been meant to distract.  He has no time to even gasp before the crushing jaws of the mage’s mount crunch hard into the bones of Branoc’s wing.

Branoc peals out a garbled roar of agony, her free wing flapping frantically to keep herself upright so Keith can reassert his grip on her fur, his body precariously leaning as the blood drains from him in fear.  A fresh burst of heat flushes through his Lion’s entire body in an attempt to dispel the enemy’s vicegrip, but it merely clenches harder, wrenching its head to refute Branoc’s struggles.  The sizzling around its mouth emits a rotten stench as the Druid atop it stands on the beast’s back, casting arm raised.

Despite her pain blinding them both, Branoc manages to at least exert as much writhing energy as possible to keep the winged mount in too much motion for the Druid to have enough stability to let go of the reins long enough to attack.  Keith dares glance down at last—he could let go to avoid the dark magic and draw the attention from Branoc, but he’d simply fall to have a fifty-fifty chance of being shattered by the jagged earth or the rabid waves beneath him.

Keith can hardly register more than Branoc’s pain and his own terror, but luckily Lance isn’t so frozen.  His charged bolt hits its original intended mark, the purifying tip of it budding through the Druid’s chest from even so great a distance.  The mage stiffens and pales, magic disappearing from their hands before they plummet to the very death Keith himself fears.

But the mount, perhaps loyal to its master, doesn’t let go.  And the remaining soldiers, seeing their own weakened target, decide they have no further interest in Lance and Irazu.

Branoc’s hot claws and teeth still flash and strike madly at her captor’s jaws, but it seems to only make it angrier, biting harder as they grapple in the air.

Driven by raw primal power of adrenaline, anger, and fear, Keith manages to bolster himself strongly enough on Branoc’s weakening, jerking form to plunge one of his daggers straight through the creature’s nose.

Finally its jaws release with a squeal, but Branoc’s built power from resisting its grip sends her lurching in the air with enough force to dislodge Keith completely.

And then, all he knows is he’s falling.

Too late Branoc tries to correct herself, jaws and claws reaching to snag her Heart from the air, but it doesn’t matter.  He’s out of reach, and with one wing injured and the other too strained from fighting to free herself, Branoc is falling too, but the distance between them is just dreadfully enough.

Keith holds onto the look in her frightened eyes because it’s the only thing around he can hold on to.  He can’t register anything beyond the sight of Irazu too far away, torn between catching her sister, catching Keith, and fending off what remains of the attackers.

Time’s slowed down, he’s sure.  The world is stopped as he falls through it, and the panic is gone before it can really take him.  Keith’s one thought is this:

Flying atop Branoc, there is a weightlessness.  There is a freedom in that there is no gravity; only the wind and his Lion’s warmth.  They cannot be touched in the sky so long as they are together.

Atop his horse, there is still the wind around him, but there is the awareness of earth too.  The rhythmic gravity of hooves to keep him grounded, to strengthen him through all his senses.

But now, he falls, the air still rushing around him, and gravity still working below him, but this is not a feeling of freedom.  Yet with it does come a certain kind of calm—a surrender as the wall of stone rises to blind him to the battle above, and Keith falls and falls until there is nothing left but the cold and the black.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can find me on tumblr @sewerpigeonart :^)


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